


here there be dragons

by theundiagnosable



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, a nefarious (?) plan, and a Height Difference, for the underserved and undoubtedly lucrative market for gay hockey tabletop rpg romance novels, ft. the crushing fear of being a disappointment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 63,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29726055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theundiagnosable/pseuds/theundiagnosable
Summary: The goalie’s the one who stands up first.It’s always the fucking goalies.
Comments: 433
Kudos: 199





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- sorry i didn’t post anything for half a year here’s a novel as penance hope people are doing ok   
>  \- see this chapter’s end notes for mildly spoilery content warnings for the whole story   
>  \- hockey and D&D are both fundamentally about using opaque rules and in-group humour to justify a tacit agreement to a) purposefully enact closeness and bonding that extend beyond the confines of the original in-group context and b) unironically Care About Things by working together for a shared goal; both of which are brave and worthwhile endeavours despite the objectively meaningless context. in this paper i will-

Platt figures out that he’s in hell when he gets back to his hotel room, opens the door, and finds his new roommate sitting on the floor, scowling at him. That part isn’t _exceptionally_ weird, because Malcolm Darling has done nothing but scowl at Platt since Platt got traded here two days ago, but tonight he’s not sitting alone: the beds and shitty little hotel armchair have been shoved aside to make room for three of their other teammates, all of whom are sat in a circle around a stack of what looks like board game supplies.

The goalie’s the one who stands up first.

It’s always the fucking goalies.

“Welcome, weary traveller,” Franklin says, and it sounds like he’s doing, like, a voice? A movie trailer voiceover voice? Either he’s doing a movie trailer voiceover voice or Platt’s new goalie is having some kind of episode. “Word of your noble deeds has spread throughout the land, and your aid is needed for an epic and terrifying quest.” He peers down at Platt all expectantly from his six foot a million vantage point, like he’s expecting him to say something to that.

“What the fuck is happening,” is the something that Platt says, flat, but he maybe says it too quietly, because Franklin keeps chattering, back to his normal voice like he flipped a switch.

“So we play any Monday that we don’t have a game, and Tuesdays if we do, and sometimes extra sessions on Thursday or Friday or both if we ended at a cliffhanger or a combat or something.”

“Breathe, Frankie,” CJ cuts in, giving Platt a maybe-friendly nod like this isn’t the literal first time they’ve ever spoken beyond a hello a day ago and CJ going to the box for all-but dislocating Platt’s shoulder with a dirty hit last time they played each other.

Mendoza, who is objectively too old for any of this, seriously, Platt is pretty sure the guy played his _dad_ , elbows CJ. “Has anyone even told him what dungeons and dragons is, guys?”

“ _Not_ satanism,” Franklin reassures, quick, like Platt fucking asked even at all.

Darling, sat on the floor with CJ and Mendoza, stays scowling.

Platt… still does not know what the fuck is happening.

“Is this a hazing thing?” he asks, wary. “Or, like…” He gestures at the dice scattered in the middle of the circle, the little figurines sitting there. Dungeons and dragons, he assumes, though he doesn’t see any figurines resembling either. “You’re fucking with me, right, with the nerd shit? Prank the new guy, or whatever?”

And it’s not like Platt even says it particularly mean, not by his standards and not even by normal people standards, but it hits ugly anyways, same as most things out of his mouth.

“…Oh,” Franklin says. In his normal voice again, except for that he both sounds and looks like Platt just murdered his entire family in front of him, which is a lot to deal with, because Franklin Nahmoud looks like a puppy at the best of times, downturned brows and these gigantic, dark eyes too pretty to be legal. He sits down now, gangly limbs folded in on himself, and Mendoza puts an arm around him, comforting. CJ frowns at Platt, like, _what the fuck, man_. Platt is used to that look, and used to ignoring it.

Darling makes this disdainful sound in the back of his throat. “I told you guys it was a stupid idea,” he snarls, and the pure venom in his voice even manages to catch Platt off guard. Darling knocks over half the figurines and sends dice skittering as he stands, elbows real roughly past Platt, and practically flings himself onto his bed, jamming a pillow over his head.

“Aw, Honey-”

“C’mon, Darling-”

Platt squeezes his eyes shut as the other Flames cajole Darling, who, in the two days Platt’s known him, has been fairly unrelentingly anything but. Maybe if Platt keeps his eyes closed long enough he’ll wake up from this miserable fucking excuse for a nightmare. Maybe he’ll get lucky and descend to a new layer of hell. Eternal torture or something. Can’t be worse than his last couple days.

His phone starts vibrating in his pocket. He doesn’t have to check to know who’s calling.

When he opens his eyes, the hotel room is still there, right down to Darling having his tantrum and Franklin carefully righting the figurines he knocked over. Platt can imagine the headline now: _Last Place Team Playing Board Games Instead Of Practicing_.

Platt grits his teeth. Decides: fuck this.

“I’m going to shower,” he announces. “I assume you people have your own rooms, it would be extremely cool of you to consider using them.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just barricades himself in the too-cramped hotel bathroom and ignores the third call from his dad since the trade, takes his shower and then stays until he hears the others leave, and then a little longer, too, just standing there under the water ‘til it runs cold, because the less time spent with Malcolm Darling, the better. The less time with any of these people.

Platt only realizes once he’s turned off the water and is stark-naked and shivering that there are no towels on the rack.

Just fucking typical.

\---

The real shitty part about Platt’s newly shitty life is that, honestly, it’s not like he didn’t see it coming. Would have been hard not to, the kinds of articles that were coming out about him at least once a week. Platt Sinclair: locker room cancer. Platt Sinclair: overpromised and underdelivered. Platt Sinclair: only went fourth overall because his dad is Ryan Sinclair. ‘Platt Sinclair: unwilling to kiss ass with the braindead coaching staff that hated him the second he opened his mouth and displayed said unwillingness to kiss ass’, is what the headlines _should’ve_ said, even if it didn’t roll off the tongue.

“You act as though you’re better than everyone here,” is what Platt’s now-former GM said, last time they met, some kind of bullshit condescending attempt at an intervention, and what Platt said, anger and fear roaring up in his chest, was, “Haven’t seen any convincing proof I’m not.”

That one rolled off the tongue just fine. Rolled Platt right off the team, too, family legacy be damned, and right out of the country, traded for a glorified goon who spent half of last season in the A. Right into the middle of a shameless and unrepentant tank job, and right into – cherry on fucking top – _Alberta._

Platt sneezes as he walks into the hotel’s dining room for breakfast, determinedly ignores the looks he’s sure it earns him from the rest of the team and just stalks over to the buffet table. Sneezes again once he’s there. He couldn’t bring himself to ask Darling for a towel yesterday, so he slept on damp hair. Hating Platt on sight wasn’t enough, now Darling has literally made him physically sick.

“Gesundheit! Oh, and good morning too, I guess!”

Platt grabs a plate, grunting something resembling a hello as Franklin bounds up to join him in front of the never-warm-enough warming trays. He seems to have bounced back from last night, at least, which is a relief, because a sad goalie is a bad goalie and Platt’s life and team are shit enough without a goalie who can’t stop pucks.

“It occurs to me that we could have framed things better for you,” Franklin says, sidling up next to Platt as he loads scrambled eggs onto his plate.

“Does it,” Platt says. He can feel Franklin looming, exuding an aura of overwhelming and suspiciously genuine friendliness that Platt chooses to ignore in favour of looking skeptically at his pile of eggs. The eggs in Dallas looked better. Everything in Dallas looked better.

“I know it’s a whole lot,” Franklin says, which, understatement, understatement to a nuclear fucking degree, a solid chunk of the reason for why Platt likes sports is ‘cause he never had to deal with Hobbies. “But I’ve found that the campaign has been really, really good for building team morale in such a tough season or, I guess, couple of seasons now, and, I mean, just speaking personally here, D&D is great for decompressing from the day-to-day stresses of-”

“Right, that’s great,” Platt cuts him off and also cuts his losses, resigning himself to his terrible scrambled eggs and veering toward the nearest empty table.

Franklin follows, squeezing his honestly almost comically tall frame into the seat across from Platt without even hesitating. In Platt’s experience, goalies are either antisocial freaks or aggressively social freaks, and right from the first moment he got here, it was obvious that Franklin Nahmoud is the latter, and also that he apparently did not get the message that Platt is Bad In The Room and also in general.

“Joey was our rogue,” Franklin’s chattering while he pokes at his own plate of fruit, and Platt is busy dumping hot sauce on his eggs in an attempt to clear his sinuses so it takes him a moment to realize Franklin’s still on the nerd board game shit. They’re in _public_. He’s not even embarrassed _._ “But now he’s gone, which is really sad, especially for Malcolm, ‘cause, you know.”

Which, no, Platt doesn’t, and doesn’t care to. Whatever his hangup about the barely-an-NHLer Platt got traded for, Darling has made it abundantly clear that he wants nothing to do with Platt. Feeling’s mutual.

Franklin misreads the expression on Platt’s face and adds, quick, “Not that we’re not happy that you’re here now! I think you seem great!”

Platt can _hear_ the exclamation marks. Can practically feel them, just earnest and kind and a deep and fundamental misunderstanding of his character, but Platt is Bad In The Room, not stupid enough to alienate the only person on this stupid joke-ass Canadian team who doesn’t openly resent him, so he mutters, “Thanks,” and shoves more egg into his mouth. It tastes like rubber. Extremely spicy, covered-in-hot-sauce rubber. Platt has regrets.

Franklin lights up. “So you’ll play?”

“Woah,” Platt says, pointing his fork at Franklin, a glob of hot-sauce covered egg quivering on the end. “I did not say that.”

“Frankie.”

They both look up as Darling approaches. Franklin smiles. Platt does not. Platt leans back in his seat, in the absolute most dismissive way he can manage, and tries not to look like he spent the night sniffling.

“Howdy, Malcolm!” says Franklin. Platt peeks at him to see if the howdy was ironic. It does not appear to have been ironic.

“Howdy,” Darling echoes, straight-faced as ever, although even he isn’t immune to Franklin’s goalie powers, because he does the closest thing Platt’s seen to a smile. “We rescheduling for tomorrow? You know, since we didn’t actually get to play our Monday game.” He gives Platt, just, the _most_ withering of looks, and Platt rolls his eyes. He’s dealt with guys like Malcolm Darling before, guys who get it in their head to hate him because his dad’s a Hall of Famer or because Platt grew up rich or because they’re one of the thousands and thousands of people who don’t think he deserves either. Usually some combo of the three. Maybe not usually this intense, at least at first.

“You were saying something?” Platt says, sugar-sweet enough that Darling is scowling all over again by the end of it.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Yeah, well,” Platt starts, the leadup to an absolutely blistering comeback, except for how he starts sneezing again straight after and Darling has marched off to go sulk elsewhere by the time he’s done.

Franklin hands him a napkin.

“What the fuck is his problem?” Platt asks, once he’s done blowing his nose. He peers around Franklin’s shoulder, eyeing Darling across the room. He doesn’t _look_ particularly evil, sitting there with his dark hair buzzed military-short over almost-as-dark skin that is noticeably flawless in a way that seems frankly obnoxiously tailor-made to mock Platt’s ‘you’re a ginger with an oily t-zone and don’t you ever forget it, Sinclair’ situation. Darling _is_ wearing a pastel purple polo shirt. Maybe a little evil.

Platt probably should have known better than to ask the human labradoodle for gossip. “Sweetie’s really, really nice, once you get to know him,” Franklin enthuses. One of his black-brown curls flops into his face. Platt narrows his eyes at it.

“I’m not calling him Sweetie,” he says, and starts helping himself to Franklin’s fruit.

Franklin doesn’t look bothered, just switches their plates around so he can eat Platt’s scrambled eggs. “Oh, you don’t have to, he’s got a bunch of nicknames,” he says, cheerily. “Honey, Baby, I guess just Darling also works, because ‘Darling’ itself being a term of endearment is kind of the point of origin of the whole joke, and- oh, Mendoza sometimes calls him Pookie but Malcolm hates that a lot so maybe don’t call him that one-”

“He’s a dickhead,” Platt interrupts.

“I mean, once you get-”

“I’ve gotten to know him,” Platt says, yanking both plates all the way to his side of the table, firm. “He was a dickhead two days ago. He’s a dickhead now. Pookie’s a permadick.”

Franklin looks like he isn’t sure whether or not he’s allowed to laugh. “I shouldn’t have told you he hates being called Pookie, I guess, huh?”

“Nope.”

Franklin sighs. Looks down enough on himself that Platt feels like a literal war criminal, so he shoves one plate an inch or so back across the table. He didn’t want his stupid eggs anyways.

“I bet,” Franklin announces, after demolishing literally Platt’s entire breakfast without even flinching at the hot sauce, “I bet, Platt, that this is all just an unfortunate misunderstanding between you both. Because maybe Sweetie isn’t exactly putting his best foot forward, but that’s only because he misses Joey a lot, like, a _lot_ , but you know what, I’ll talk to him, and I’m sure you guys will work it out and in a couple seasons we’ll all be buddies and we can laugh about this!”

A couple of seasons.

Platt drags a hand down his face. Fuck you, oily t-zone. “Look,” he says, blunt. “You seem, like, cartoonishly pleasant-”

“Thanks! You also seem-”

“So I won’t bullshit you,” Platt plows ahead. “Plan is I play out the five months left on my contract, score enough goals so that a team with an actual roster will sign me in summer, and try to forget that this season happened, okay?”

Franklin blinks at him. “Oh,” he says, after a second. “That’s, um. Well thought out.”

It’s such a deeply transparent attempt at manners that Platt can’t not laugh, just a small one. Like, legitimately the most nothing laugh ever to claw its way out of Platt’s horribly congested face, but Franklin openly lights up at it, which is both mollifying and vaguely suspicious, because no one in the history of ever has that reaction to Platt.

“You’re a decent goalie,” Platt informs him. It’s the truth. Even an understatement – Franklin was his same draft year, a few picks back from Platt. Lower than he should’ve gone, ‘cause he’s been the only thing keeping the Flames in games since his callup last season, the only name on the roster people really cared about ‘til Platt got here. Shame for him to waste a chunk of his career here, especially once Platt’s gone. “You could get the hell out, too.”

Franklin just shrugs. “I love this team,” he says, simple, then, “And hey, who’s to say, maybe once you get to know-” He breaks off at Platt’s raised eyebrow, looking thoughtful. “Oh, I see it now, I’m saying it again, I’ll stop.”

He sits with Platt on the bus to the Canucks’ rink for morning skate, whatever that’s worth. Platt listens to him talk; watches Vancouver pass by out the window, his third city in as many days, and blows his nose one last time before heading into the room, steeling himself.

Not like Platt doesn’t know what he’s walking into. Same thing as every other locker room he’s walked into, preconceptions and all. Coach Wahlstrom took him aside practically the second Platt got off the plane back in Calgary, did all the friendly small talk stuff, then, right on schedule, said, “It doesn’t matter to us that you’re Ryan Sinclair’s kid, you understand?” which was, like, a deeply self-defeating statement, because if Platt wasn’t Ryan Sinclair’s kid the conversation wouldn’t have been happening in the first place, but Platt didn’t say that, just nodded like he was hearing any of this for the first time.

“There’s a place for you on this team,” Wahlstrom kept going. “We think you’ve got a lot more to show than you have so far, but we want you here as a contributor and leader to what we’re building as an organization, not whatever legacy kid drama was happening in Dallas, is that clear?”

“Give me ice and we won’t have a problem,” Platt said, then, after a moment, and only because he knew his dad would want him to, “Please.”

Coach Wahlstrom gave this wry smile. “You’ll get ice,” he said, and Platt sort of wondered about it at the time, but he gets it, now, that it was honesty to the point of being vaguely tragic, because Platt looks at the lines written on the whiteboard in the Canucks’ visitors’ room, looks at the guys dressing around him, and thinks- yeah, zero surprises as to why the Flames haven’t made the playoffs since Platt was starting high school.

First game with the team, precisely one morning skate in red under his belt, Platt is centring the de-facto first line, Rudy Mendoza on his left and Malcolm ‘Absolute Most Shit-Tier Roommate on the Planet’ Darling on his right. Better lineys than Platt had when he was stuck getting five minutes a night in Dallas. Not by much. Platt wasn’t wrong: Mendoza was a rookie the last couple years of Platt’s dad’s career and whatever he was in his prime, he’d be a fourth liner on a competent team now even if he’s got the A by ‘old guy on a shit team’ default; Darling is fine, Platt supposes, was hyped as a prospect but is getting to the age where college potential is turning into nope, this is just the kind of player he is.

Warmups start decently enough. Platt hits the ice, gets a puck on his stick and his feet under him quick. Has to, ‘cause he’s got a good luck text from his dad waiting on his phone – Platt will call him later, he _will_ , he just needs to focus – and can practically feel all the camera guys in the whole place focusing in on him, waiting for him to put up or shut up.

Put up, Platt decides, firm. This is when he does it. Score goals, prove he’s as good as he was supposed to be, as he has to be, then get the hell out. That’s the plan. Put up and shut them all, every last one of them, up.

 _Tap-tap_. Someone in the bowl seats next to where Platt’s been keeping up the puck slaps the glass, which Platt would normally ignore, but today, whatever reason, he looks. The little cluster of travelling Flames fans looks thrilled, and one of them, an older, greying dude who’s the only one not in red, flashes him a thumbs-up then turns around to show off a sweater with SINCLAIR on the back. A Stars sweater. Number 72.

Platt turns back to the ice, practically flinches away from the thumbs up and presumably-supportive shouting. They’re hitting the glass again, rapid-fire this time, _tap-tap-tap,_ and Platt swears to god he feels every single one shuddering through him, drowning out his heartbeats, drowning out the crowd noise, drowning out every single stupid fucking mantra he was trying to convince himself of. Of course someone’s here in his dad’s sweater. Of course it’s his dad’s, Platt doesn’t even know why he thought it could ever be his, not like he’s done fuck-all to deserve that, not back in Dallas and sure as fuck not in a whole different market. _Tap-tap-tap-_

“Hey.” There’s a stick-tap on Platt’s shins, and he blinks, sucks in a breath, realizes he completely zoned out of the anthems. Anthem, singular. Anthem, currently over. Franklin is next to him, even more giant now he’s filled-out with his pads, mostly-obscured behind a helmet painted with shimmering golden flames that are pouring out of the mouths of these twisted, red-scaled dragons. No dungeons. Platt feels like he’s going to puke.

“You okay?”

Platt nods. Does not puke. Possibly only because he’s still congested as hell.

“You’re going to be great!” Franklin says, and gives Platt this smile, eyes crinkled and dark and warm behind his cage, before heading off to his net. Platt has this ridiculous, desperate impulse to beg him to stay, but they don’t really know each other and Platt’s not a loser who latches onto the first out-of-his-league nice guy he finds, so he doesn’t, just goes the opposite direction for puck drop

 _Put up_ , he orders himself, but the words sound empty now, even just in his head. _Fucking put up, Sinclair_.

His linemates are mingling around center ice by the time Platt gets there. Mendoza is jawing off with the ref on Platt’s left, laughing like they’re old buddies, and when Platt lines up for the faceoff, Darling bumps his shoulder, hard, on his way past.

“Liney,” Darling says, and it’s ostensibly a greeting but it’s followed up with a glare and laced with absolute hatred, the kind that Platt’s never managed to get used to having directed at him, not after all these years, and by the time Platt looks away from Darling and realizes that the puck’s been dropped, it’s already on the other center’s stick.

It’s got to be some kind of world record, shortest time on ice with a new team before having to skate off while the Canucks’ goal song blares.

Platt’s no stranger to being angry. No stranger to the way he feels the anger boiling in him, humiliation tilting into something almost like fear, because that’s the only way his body reacts to most things. He knows his face is flushed red to match his sweater and doesn’t even care. He doesn’t know where the fuck the D were on that play, let alone his linemates, but it sure as hell wasn’t anywhere near the puck, and Platt knows- he _knows_ , instinctively, that it’s not going to matter, because it’s always the center that takes the blame for a shitshow like that, and that’s going to be doubled for him, because Ryan Sinclair was never once in his life walked for a goal two seconds into a game. Would’ve blocked it with the divine force of leadership or whatever even if he was.

“Were you planning on being on the correct half of the ice at literally any one point in that shift?” Platt all but snarls at Darling once they’re back at the bench.

“Hey!” Wahlstrom barks. “None of that, we shake it off and get one back. Team sport.”

Platt glowers at him, only barely manages to bite down a retort and only then because two attitude-induced trades in a season’ll probably tank his chances of signing somewhere good. So- fine. He’ll take it. He’ll get one back.

He sucks in a breath. It takes more effort than it should. _Not here_ , he orders himself, way he always has. _You’re not panicking here_. Get one back. He has to get one back.

And then he turns his head and gets a glimpse of Darling, just a glimpse, but enough to see that Darling is _smirking,_ grim and self-satisfied. Like fucking over his team is worth it if Platt goes down too.

Platt sees red. Literally, because of these hideous fucking sweaters. But also- angry red. _Hating_ red. Darling fucked with him on purpose, he realizes, sure as anything. “Darling, you’re such a complete-”

“Sinclair!” Wahlstrom snaps.

“You were saying something?” Darling asks, innocent.

“You’re fucking right, I was saying something,” Platt starts, standing up tall as he can and getting right in Darling’s face, and that, predictably, is the image that Twitter runs with after the game, the photo under every single tweet and every single article that Platt reads obsessively, talking about how it’s not the start the Flames were hoping for, and not what the fans wanted to see, and he’s Ryan Sinclair’s son so of course he’s got potential, but it’s not what we expected to see-

“Only lost by a goal,” Mendoza’s saying to CJ, all thoughtful, as they file onto the bus ahead of Platt. “That’s improvement.”

Jesus christ.

Platt takes a seat by himself on the plane, near the bathroom with his headphones on and eyes shut long before takeoff. No one on the team tries to talk to him, which, good, Platt didn’t want any of them liking him anyways. Let them talk shit in peace, god knows he’s done nothing to prove them wrong about any of the crap they’ve definitely read about him.

It’s late when they get back to Calgary, everyone dispersing quick to wherever home is. Like fuck is Platt buying or renting property in this frozen hellscape, though, so he gets an Uber to a drugstore and then to yet another hotel room. At least he’s got this one to himself. No scowling roomies or not-satanic gaming circles. That’s improvement.

Again: Jesus fucking christ. Three days, and this is where Platt’s standards have fallen.

He showers, cranks up the thermostat as high as it’ll go, chugs some Nyquil straight from the bottle, then crawls into the somehow still cold bed – everything is cold, here – and finally returns his dad’s call.

“Man, finally!” his dad says, without waiting for a ‘hello’. And it’s just the single most pathetic thing in the world, but Platt hears his voice and has this godawful moment where he feels like he might actually cry, because hearing his dad, it’s like- the exact same as it’s always been, like they’re hanging out in their apartment watching a taped game, like Platt’s shooting the shit with the one person who actually likes him. “How are you doing, is it good there? I figured you’d be busy, but I watched your game-”

“Did you know they were going to trade me?” Platt blurts. It’s not what he meant to say. He didn’t even realize he was going to until it was out.

“I’m player dev, not management, you know that, twenty-seven,” his dad chides, no heat to it at all.

“Retired number doesn’t count for shit anymore these days, huh, seventy-two?” Platt drawls. Low blow, even as he feels a frankly nauseating wave of relief. He didn’t _really_ think his dad was in on some conspiracy to trade him away – the man barely even remembers to make dentist appointments unless Platt reminds him, and the two of them tell each other just about everything – but he still wondered. Not like he could blame his dad if he had been in on it, because it can’t feel particularly good to be loved like a god in a city and franchise and then have to watch your kid become persona very, very non-grata in both.

“Tell me about it,” is all Platt’s dad says, and even that’s more good-natured than Platt’s bitchiness deserved. “C’mon, I’ve been worrying about you for three days, what’s it like? You getting to know any of the boys yet?”

Platt tucks his feet closer to his body to try and leech off his own heat. “Neither of my wingers can skate,” he says. “And everyone hated me as soon as I got here, except my goalie, and especially my road roomie, who I didn’t even _do_ anything to yet. And Calgary is fucking cold.” He’s whining and he knows it, the last few days bubbling out like they’ve been pressurized, but his dad just makes a sympathetic sound.

“Trades can be hard, at first.”

“You never got traded,” Platt points out. The wanting to cry feeling is back. Also the nausea. His dad _was_ the Stars’ franchise, draft day to retirement. Was the face of American hockey, too. Maybe hockey in general, not that anyone in this country would admit it. Platt wants to go _home_.

“You know tons of great players have been traded.”

“Not you,” Platt says, then, before his dad can feel like he has to be, like, a parent-parent, because that’s not how they work, “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to make them regret it.”

“That’s the fuckin’ spirit,” his dad says, then, “You spoken to your mom, let her know you arrived okay?”

Platt makes a face at the ceiling. “I mean, realistically, what are the odds she knows I left?”

“She knows,” his dad says, and Platt knows him enough to know what the too-innocent tone in his voice means.

“Not again,” he groans, and the hesitation at his dad’s end is answer enough. And see, Platt’s not, like, angsty about his parents being divorced – if anything he respects his mom for having the guts to cut her losses and dip when the hockey lifestyle plus two year old Platt didn’t live up to expectations – but he sort of wishes they would’ve just made a clean break of it instead of their endless cycle of breaking up, playing happy families when his mom decides to pretend to give a shit for a couple months, then Platt’s dad being heartbroken every single time she decides, hm, no, I was right about not wanting them. Which she does decide, every single time.

“It was just coffee!” his dad says, half-hearted. Platt’s been gone three days and he’s already being stupid, _again_. “Friendly co-parent coffee, was I supposed to not tell her what’s happening in our son’s life?”

“Did you tell her or did she ask about me herself?” Platt counters, and, again, the hesitation says it all. “You realize you’re literally setting yourself up for-”

“Yeah, I get it,” his dad says, all sulky like he’s the one getting parented. He’s usually the one getting parented.

Platt sighs. “I’ll call when she calls,” he allows, begrudgingly, and his dad must know that’s as good as he’s going to get – the Platt Sinclair story – because he changes the subject.

“I met Moore,” he offers. “Seems like he’ll fit in with the boys.”

Platt does not give a single shit about the nobody he got traded for. One for one, his _ass_. “Scouting report for my new team,” he requests, and his dad rolls with that subject change too, gets real into the details of what he’s seen, because he’s the greatest, and Platt relaxes into the conversation, feels as close as he’s felt to happy since he left.

“Miss having you around, bud,” his dad says, finally, when they get around to saying goodnight.

“Yeah, I know,” Platt says, struck with a pang of guilt. His dad’s all alone now, too, without Platt to look out for him. All alone except for Platt’s mom, and going to be miserable again within the month, if every pattern Platt has ever known holds. “You as well.”

“You’re _sure_ you’re ok-”

“Bye,” Platt says, and hangs up.

The hotel room seems somehow quieter than it did before, once Platt hangs up.

He thinks sometimes that it’d be easier if his dad was an asshole, the way people expect sports parents to be. At least then Platt could enjoy disappointing him out of spite, whereas now all he thinks about is how much his dad believes in him in spite of Platt doing fuckall to deserve it. Like, his dad genuinely believes that Platt’s as good as he was or better, and Platt- he _can_ be, he has to be, he does believe that, but he didn’t get minutes and he talked himself out of Dallas and now he’s on this pile of dog turds masquerading as an NHL team and the whole thing just reeks of all that belief being unjustified.

Platt scrunches his eyes shut when he feels himself tensing up again, his breath catching on the edge of panic he hasn’t been able to shake all night. It’s like the tapping from the rink followed him here. Like the heavy gazes did too, of the crowd and the media and his disapproving teammates on the plane.

Fuck ‘em. Fuck all of them. Platt doesn’t need these people to like him, doesn’t need Franklin taking pity on him and inviting him to their Brady Bunch game nights; all Platt needs is to get back to putting the puck in the net the way he did in juniors, the way everyone needs him to, the way no one gave him a chance to in Dallas. Score goals, get the fuck out. Put up.

“I can do this,” Platt announces to the empty room, and it echoes, just a little pathetic, when he sneezes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS content warnings for this whole thing: pov character with anxiety experiences panic attacks and paranoia about people hating him and lots of negative self-talk while actively attempting to conceal his anxiety and panic disorder; ends the story in a better place and taking steps to get help


	2. Chapter 2

Major, unforeseen flaw that Platt maybe should have foreseen: the unavoidable fact that the current incarnation of the Calgary Flames is a barren wasteland where offense goes to die. Not even just die- like, to die and get scavenged to bones by vultures and rats and various insects.

Platt gets a goal when it deflects in off the Oilers’ goalie’s ass.

That’s the high point.

Platt’s never played for a team this trash before. He knows this is the first year for a new coach and GM, knows all the stuff about planning to grow and develop the right way. Doesn’t change the fact that, as of right now, Calgary’s icing a roster that, first month of the season, got shut out three consecutive games. Platt _tries_ , he really fucking tries, but they lose their Saturday game, and then the next one, also in their division, and then they just barely manage to scrape out a win against the Blues and even that takes Platt playing literally half an hour and Franklin standing on his head and CJ picking up what’s deservedly going to be his second suspension this season.

The locker room is buzzing after, the team planning to go out for drinks like one win on a Wednesday in early November means shit. Platt just slips out, avoiding the moment when one of the others awkwardly realizes they have to invite him in the name of team building. He can’t think of any worse way to spend his evening than sitting around pretending to be tolerated by people whose first names he firmly intends on not learning. Like, boo hoo, he’s missing out on the bustling Calgary nightlife, fuck off.

“I was looking for you last night!” Franklin says, next day, after stopping Platt’s shootout attempt at the end of practice.

“Next time,” Platt lies, only feeling a little bad for lying to the one likeable person here, though they’re back in the L column their next game, so ‘next time’ doesn’t happen, which solves at least that one problem for him.

His other problem – the infinitely more annoying one – isn’t so easy to handle.

Platt keeps an eye out, hyperaware, but Darling doesn’t go as far as he did that first shift again. They’re getting matched up against other teams’ top players, and Darling’s not a complete idiot, or at least doesn’t want to risk the press realizing Platt’s not the only shit stirrer. No, the problem is all, like, little, deniable things, like Darling talks directly and exclusively to Mendoza if they’re doing any drills as a line, ignores Platt completely whenever they’re in their room on the road. And Platt’s still not receiving half as many feeds from him as he should, but – he tries to convince himself – it might just be a coincidence, Darling not knowing how to read the play right. Maybe he just sucks. Maybe that first night really was an accident.

“How is it physically possible for someone your size to occupy this much space?”

Then again, maybe not.

“Can’t hear you,” Platt lies, loud, tapping his headphones and going back to his workout with the pleasure of watching Darling’s forehead vein bulge out before he storms away.

A gym’s a gym, not much to pick between Calgary and Dallas. Platt’s been hanging out in the Flames’ a lot, mostly just splitting his time between here and the ice, because fuck if he’s going to spend any more time than necessary in his hotel room. He’d be in here anyways, even with the added probability of Darling encounters, because, A, Franklin’s usually around, and, B, the thing about being shorter than everyone else in your profession is that no one’s going to give you the benefit of the doubt about being able to tough it out, Sinclair or not.

A couple of the older d-men – deeply mediocre, two of the callups who’re usually the only ones at optional skate with Platt and the backups – stroll directly through the path of Platt’s broad jump, sending him teetering to catch his balance mid-movement. They don’t even notice his dirty look, still absorbed in their conversation.

“-it’s a thing, man, your resting heart rate-”

“No, I totally know what you mean, you gotta try the way Mooresy would always-”

Platt turns up his music ‘til it drowns them out.

It’s like- he’s used to being compared to his dad. That’s inevitable. Shitty, annoying, semi-regularly makes him feel so seized up with anxiety that he has to go hyperventilate in the shower while his brain panic-spirals, but inevitable. The new, infinitely more annoying addition to Platt’s life is the fact that he’s now also being compared to the guy he got traded for. It’s all Joey-this and Mooresy-that, to the point where, by the end of his first two weeks in Calgary, Platt is pretty much certain that the entire team and half the press corps had and has a massive raging boner for the guy. Mostly a metaphorical boner? Though honestly maybe literal in Darling’s case, based on the way the guy openly hates Platt, has openly hated Platt since the second Platt got here and doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. The way Franklin said, back that first day, “Darling misses Joey a _lot_ ,” all that emphasis, all Darling’s assholery… Platt wonders.

He searches Moore up, sitting there alone in his room after another home loss. He googles _Joseph Moore hockey player_ , scanning for something, anything to reveal why everyone’s so obsessed with Saint Joey. Doesn’t find anything all that interesting, other than a bunch of pictures of Moore all buddy-buddy with Darling, arms around each other basically non-stop all through college. There’s one of those dumb heartwarming articles about the both of them, all ‘high school best friends and Michigan roommates now NHL teammates’. Darling’s grinning in the pictures. Platt didn’t think he knew how. Otherwise, nothing. Moore’s counting stats are precisely as mediocre as Platt thought, and watching clips of him playing isn’t much better. He’s, like- a guy. The kind of guy who may as well have been, like, future considerations for a sixth round pick, that’s how frankly insulting it is that Platt just got traded for him and only him.

“-and that’s Joey Moore, the newest Star, with the rebound goal,” the play-by-play guy’s saying, like some sick joke, not five minutes after Platt runs out of articles to read about himself and turns on the third period of the Stars’ game. Platt watches the replay in disbelief as the callers keep rubbing salt in the wound.

“There was a lot of talk after management traded for Moore in exchange for Platt Sinclair, and to some extent, you get that, because Moore doesn’t have Sinclair’s pedigree, obviously-”

The camera follows along as Moore, all ruddy cheeks and an absolute mess of a stubbly beard, gets high fives and head pats from Platt’s former teammates, grinning broadly. “And especially not in this town-”

“No, of course not, but I got to say, Pete, maybe a hot take, but I think if we’re talking in terms of culture in the room, in terms of fitting in, in terms of wanting to emulate what Ryan Sinclair brought this franchise back in the day? I think there’s a real possibility we look back on this deal and think the Stars might’ve pulled something off.”

Platt throws the remote at the wall. Realizes too late that it means he’ll have to get up in order to be able to turn off the TV, that or spend his night listening to everyone wax poetic about how much of a piece of shit he is, because of fucking course they are.

His goalie is the only person who likes him here. Maybe anywhere. And, like, Franklin hardly even counts, probably, because he likes everyone, and everyone just absolutely fucking adores him back, which Platt can begrudgingly admit makes sense, because he looks for cracks in the façade, he really does, but it appears that Franklin is just genuinely Like That.

Somehow even more incomprehensible: the fact that Franklin apparently has not got the message that he is essentially a Disney prince in both looks and personality and could hang out with absolutely anyone he wanted and have them, like, fawn over him, because from the first roadie onwards, he always comes and has breakfast with Platt, sits with him on the bus to wherever they’re playing or practicing that day.

Platt watches Franklin almost as close as he watches Darling. Notices, as the days pass, that it’s not just him that Franklin spends time with. He makes the rounds, going out of his way to stretch with the other young guys pregame or stay behind after practice to take shots from whoever wants him to. Weird part is Platt doesn’t even think it’s calculated, at least not consciously. Everything about Franklin seems just, like, tailor-made for people to trust him implicitly. Which Platt doesn’t, obviously, anyone that nice can’t be normal, but- look, Franklin’s tall enough that Platt can use him as a human shield to avoid having to interact with the rest of this AHL-ass team, and he’s all sweet and bubbly and pretty and has the added bonus of not seeming annoyed by anything Platt says, which is kind of a rare commodity.

“Am I the only one who thinks it’s a little fucked up that a province with a fetish for oil named a team after the last fucking thing you want to happen near oil?” Platt asks him once, pre-game, earning either dirty looks or zero response from most of the other guys in earshot. “That can’t just be me.”

“You’re literally from Texas, you can’t critique somewhere else for oil,” Darling says on his way past, and Platt resists the urge to stick out a foot and trip him. He’s pretty sure the accidental high stick to the nose Darling gave him today wasn’t as accidental as it looked.

Franklin says, all helpful, “The name is a holdover from the team’s time in Atlanta, actually!” and all Platt can do is pout, because spouting fun facts: should be annoying, from Franklin somehow just endearing. Makes no sense, but that’s how it is.

And so, fine, Platt maybe hangs around Franklin a little. Would maybe hang around him a little more, if it wasn’t for the fucking game.

It’s that, the game – the _other_ game, not the one Platt’s paid almost a million bucks to play – that’s kind of the tipping point.

They’re playing in Minny tomorrow, as if Canada wasn’t enough bitter cold for Platt. His one bright spot, the convenient thing about living out of a suitcase, is that he hardly has to pack for road trips, so he gets to his and Darling’s room, kicks his bag into a corner, and flops down onto the bed closest to the window to use his free evening to try and find his zen before tomorrow’s game. He still only has five points in the two weeks since the trade, three of them on the powerplay and only one of them a goal, and he needs to start living up to the billing.

Except that it’s a Monday.

Of course, it’s a Monday, so there’s a knock on the door and then Franklin comes in toting an absurd amount of gear, trailed by Mendoza, doing all the talking, and CJ, doing none of it. The usual.

“Want to join in, Platt?” Franklin asks, when Platt accidentally meets his eyes. Mostly accidentally.

“I’d rather drink bleach, weirdly, Franklin,” Platt says, because sitting in a circle like little kids and describing imaginary fantasy shit wouldn’t be his idea of fun even if Darling wasn’t sitting there looking like he’d straight up murder Platt if Platt got it in his head to try to play.

So much for Platt’s zen. He blasts his music through his headphones ‘til it hurts and still doesn’t manage to drown out the excited shouts and weird accents and clattering as they roll a truly ungodly amount of dice even though that’s not even what one of the Ds stands for.

It’s _three hours_ before they start packing up to leave. No wonder the team’s shit, if they’re wasting that much time on non-hockey stuff.

“Have a good night!” Franklin says, continually the only good thing in Platt’s recent life. Platt gives him a little wave before closing his eyes again, quick, so none of the non-Franklins will get any ideas about conversing with him.

Slowly, testing as time passes, he lowers the volume of his music to something tolerable. He breathes out when there’s no other sound but Darling’s quiet movements as he, presumably, gets ready for bed. Then-

“Hm,” Darling says. Nothing else.

Platt turns up his music again, just a smidge. He can _feel_ Darling staring at him.

“Hm,” Darling says again, a while later, and Platt shoves down his headphones to glare at him. “What kind of first name is Platt anyways?”

Apropos of fucking nothing.

“I don’t know, what kind of last name is Darling?” Platt asks back, and Darling has the audacity to look offended.

“I didn’t choose it.”

“And I chose _Platt_?”

“Platt,” Darling mutters under his breath while he unzips his bag, all grim like he’s personally offended by Platt’s parents’ admittedly almost comically white, mom’s-maiden-name-as-first-name naming choices. Which, like- yeah, Platt gets it, but it’s also precisely none of Darling’s business, just another incident of him hating Platt for no good reason.

“I was going to brush my teeth,” Platt says, lashing out impulsively, when he sees Darling taking out his toothpaste and brush. It’s a lie, and an obvious one.

The ensuing pause feels distinctly dangerous.

“You’re laying in bed right now,” Darling says.

“Yeah, but I was going to get up and use the bathroom to brush my teeth, so.”

“Well, I’m already up and on my way, so.”

Platt gets up, blocking his path, and Darling tries to shove past, but Platt’s got a low enough centre of gravity to stay in place – “Will you- this is so _childish_ -” “I _told_ you I was going-” – and they end up both wedged into the bathroom doorway, trying to squeeze past each other.

“Are you joking right now?” Darling snaps, all haughty in his stupid collared shirt because he’s incapable of not looking like a commerce major. “You could have brushed your teeth at any point in the last three hours.”

Platt snorts. “Oh, sure, while half the team was sitting around?”

“Right, I forgot, you were busy doing your weird staring at Franklin thing.”

Something about that, in particular, rubs Platt even more the wrong way than Darling has in general. Fuck him for bringing the only person Platt likes onto this team into things, for implying whatever the fuck he’s implying, as if Platt would be stupid enough to think that could ever happen.

“Did I do literally anything to you, or are you just unprompted trying to be the world’s most obnoxious roommate?” Platt asks, as they spill out of the doorway and wind up staring each other down, face-to-face in the tiny little entrance to their room.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Darling says, unbothered.

“Unprompted, cool,” Platt says, absolutely more careless and unbothered, so there, dickhead. “And the sabotaging your own team?”

“Oh, please, it’s hardly my fault if you’re too egotistical to focus on a game,” Darling says, then, the cheap shot, “Everyone knows what kind of person you are, I’ve read the articles.”

 _Same here, dickface,_ Platt thinks. “That the kind of stuff they taught you at college?” he shoots back, pulling himself up as tall as he can. “Harder playing against actual grown-ups, huh?”

“What does that even- I’m older than you!”

Platt gapes at him. “ _That’s_ your issue with me?”

“My issue,” Darling almost-shouts, “is that my best friend got traded because you couldn’t pretend not to be an asshole long enough to convince your own father’s team to re-sign you after blowing the fourth overall pick on you!”

“Best friend,” Platt echoes, momentarily forgetting to be angry in favour of being curious.

Darling’s got a look on his face like he’s eaten something bitter. “Yeah, friends, they’re this thing that happens when you aren’t an arrogant gremlin.”

“I get that, thanks,” Platt says, because anything Darling can call him, people online have said ten times worse, guaranteed; then, honest, not even an attempt at a diss, he says, “Way you act about him, I kind of figured you and Moore were together. Like, romantically.”

And it’s odd, Darling’s reaction to that, for how stark it is. His face contorts like Platt hit him, the deadpan snark that’s been there the whole time Platt’s known him temporarily replaced with an obvious, stricken kind of hurt, and then with white-hot anger, so Platt knows he happened upon a sore spot.

“Fuck you, Sinclair,” Darling says, practically shaking, he looks so murderous. The words come out enunciated so sharp they may as well be cut glass. “ _Fuck_ you.”

“Same to you,” Platt retorts, automatically. “I didn’t even-”

“It’ll be so incredibly satisfying watching the rest of your pathetic excuse for a career get ruined, you know that?”

“I didn’t even say anything rude that time!” Platt gets out, indignant and apparently distracted – mother _fucker_ – because Darling takes the chance to duck into the bathroom and slam the door directly in Platt’s face.

Platt hammers on the door. “Fuck you too, _Pookie_!” he shouts, and kicks the door once, for good measure, and then again, just so Darling will get the message loud and clear that whatever hate-on he’s got for Platt, it’s more than fucking mutual.

\---

Platt doesn’t sleep great, that night. Not any of the next few nights, either.

He was trying to chalk it up to the team being a dogshit mix of has-beens and will-never-bes, he really was, but after that night, that fight, Platt knows for a fact what he’s suspected from the start: Malcolm Darling is actively trying to ruin his career.

They get on the rush, down one in the second, and Platt taps his stick for the puck. Darling looks him off.

They’re up three, a rare good night against the Preds, and Platt shouts for the puck on the powerplay. Darling rings it around the boards to the point.

Platt asks and asks and asks for the puck, and doesn’t even try to on-purpose or by-accident provoke Darling the way he did that night, doesn’t mention Joey Moore even tangentially, and it doesn’t matter, because Darling gives the puck to Mendoza, keeps it himself, occasionally sends an impossible pass into Platt’s skates, anything other than get Platt a goal.

His hatred is noticeable to the point where, after they play the Sabres and a two-on-one turns into nothing, Wahlstrom reams him out about it, “Twenty-seven was wide open, Darling!”, and Platt gets the legitimate but fleeting pleasure of watching Darling sulk around the whole flight back to Calgary. Teacher’s pet.

Darling’s more subtle about it after that. Doesn’t stop, though.

“ _Ouch_ ,” Platt snaps, leaning on the boards and testing his leg. “Were you trying to break my fucking femur, or-”

“Joey never complained about blocking shots,” Darling says, which, yeah, Platt bets he didn’t, but he also bets Moore didn’t have to block them from his own fucking linemate, at _practice._

“Go fuck yourself,” Platt mutters, and Franklin, leaning over the bench for a water bottle, looks tragic, the way he always does when they fight in front of him. Platt bumps his arm. “Not you.”

Franklin still looks stricken. Platt hates Darling more than ever.

Thing is, right, he can take Darling’s bitchy comments. People don’t like Platt, like, as a rule, he can take it. What Platt can’t take, and what is increasingly weighing down on him, is the realization of the fact that as long as Darling’s nursing this vendetta, Platt’s plan to get the hell out of here is basically in the toilet. It’s like – where he was drafted, the name on his back, that’ll help him get a contract out of his entry level, but what that contract looks like and how good of a team offers it is very much going to be dependent on Platt proving he’s got the Sinclair scoring touch, which requires him to score goals, which, unless one third of his line stops trying to destroy him, isn’t going to happen.

 _this is the kid who’s supposed to save our franchise???_ someone tweeted yesterday. _we gave up jmoore for this? for him?_ It’s got almost sixty replies. Most of them agreeing. Not all. But most. Platt reads every single one.

Not like the off-ice part of Platt’s life is doing so hot either – he’s deeply and miserably sick of room service and takeout to the point that he briefly considers cooking. _Cooking._ That lasts five minutes before he sucks it up and orders another rice bowl. His mom finally calls, almost a full month after the trade. Platt’s pretty sure his dad probably nudged her into doing it. Wishes he hadn’t bothered.

“I’ll get Ryan to send you photos from our dinner,” his mom says, after making stilted conversation for ten minutes, already sounding a million miles away. “Love you more than anything, pumpkin, mwah.”

“I hate that nickname,” Platt says to the dial tone, then drops his phone on the floor and doesn’t look at it again ‘til morning, when he’s greeted with another clip of his dad talking him up on local sports radio, “However good I was, Platt’s going to be better, zero doubt,” and Platt’s all for that, in theory, but his liney conspiring against him is a pretty major wrench in that plan, and he can practically _feel_ Calgary turning into yet another place where he’s written off as a huge disappointment to everyone, and the days keep mounting up and the goals keep not and it’s around then that Platt makes up his mind that something has to be done.

He’s got one single ally in his life at the moment, so that’s where he turns. He has to bide his time to find the right opportunity to bring it up, waiting impatiently ‘til they’re in their hotel the night before playing the Coyotes, for once not annoyed to have to witness dungeons and dragons.

Platt’s got it all planned out: he waits ‘til Franklin and the boys are done their weird roleplay thing and Franklin starts packing up his dice and books and notepads. He always brings too much to carry by himself. That’s what Platt’s counting on.

Right on schedule, Franklin pauses, balancing a stack of books in his arms as he tries to lift his bag with a pinkie. “Oh, CJ, do you mind-”

“I’ll help,” Platt cuts in, and ignores the surprised look that the others exchange.

“Cool!” Franklin looks far more pleased than Platt offering to help carry nerd shit should ever make someone look. More than anyone tends to look at anything Platt-related, actually. “That’s really nice of y-”

“Don’t worry about it, let’s go, ‘kay?” Platt says, brisk. He shoulders Franklin’s bag and heads out without waiting for a confirmation.

Franklin spends, like, ten more minutes saying bye to the other guys, as if they’re not going to see each other in seven hours at breakfast, but he finally joins Platt. They head down the hall, quiet ‘til Platt hears Mendoza shut his door behind them, and that’s when Platt strikes.

“So what the fuck is the deal with Darling and Moore?” he asks, casual, as they amble along. Well. Franklin ambles. Platt walks at a normal pace to keep up with him. Fuckin’ tall people. “I asked him if they were dating and he practically, like, murdered me-”

“You _asked_ that?” Franklin looks scandalized, eyes wide. It’s like, supernatural, how good he is at that. Platt wonders if he wears, like, extra-sparkly glitter contacts. “Oh, gosh, Platt.”

“Don’t say gosh, it’s adorable,” Platt grumbles.

“Is there a less adorable alternative you’d prefer?” Franklin asks, and it’s funny – he says it precisely as innocent as ever, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth kind of polite, but a corner of his mouth turns up, this mischievous little flicker of a smile.

“Was that you being a shit?” Platt asks, intrigued. He didn’t think Franklin did sarcasm. Doesn’t really go with the whole ‘flawless being of pure perfection’ thing. “Are you capable of that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Franklin says, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, not a hint of sass about him. Platt could almost be convinced he imagined the whole thing.

“Alternatives to gosh, right,” Platt says, still bemused; then, tongue in cheek, “Golly-gee? Jinkies?”

“Jeepers,” Franklin suggests, smiling for real now as he plays along. He looks like how sunshine feels, pretty much. The combo of his smile and his personality is extremely distracting. Platt doesn’t have time for distractions.

“Quit distracting me,” he says, fighting to wipe the smile off of his face. “Darling and Moore, give me gossip, give me tragic backstory, go.”

Franklin looks thoughtful. “I don’t think it was anything dramatic enough for backstory,” he muses. “I don’t think it was anything at all, really, just- you know. Sometimes people care about each other but it’s difficult to muster up the courage to share those emotions and potentially take the next step. Although- I do think Malcolm’s got a lot of regrets about it. So it might be a little tragic, I suppose.”

“He hates me because I got traded for the crush he was too lame to try to bone,” Platt translates, cutting the Franklin-isms. It’s sort of a relief to have a concrete explanation for Darling’s beef. Like, okay, it’s him, not Platt. This makes sense. Which is to say- like, it doesn’t, because hating someone for having the audacity to be traded from his hometown to your shitty team that isn’t even the only one in the province just because the guy who went the other way was the object of your pathetic unrequited feelings doesn’t _actually_ make much sense at all, but it’s a reason, one with a cause and an effect.

This, Platt can work with.

“Simple solution, then,” he says, once he’s thought it through.

They’re at Franklin’s room now, but Franklin doesn’t move to go inside, just stands there bracketed by the doorframe and cocks his head at Platt. “Is there?”

“Yeah,” Platt says, grinning as the plan solidifies itself in his head. “We’re going to get them together.” He counts on his fingers as he thinks it through, getting more enthusiastic as he goes. “Darling gets his boy, realizes I didn’t ruin his life and actually improved it, he stops playing like an asshole because of his eternal gratitude to me, my goals total goes through the fucking roof, I get signed to an actual team and never have to spend more than two consecutive days in this hellhole again.”

He finishes with a flourish, leans back against the tacky hotel wallpaper and folds his arms, smug, Franklin’s bag of miniatures and dice hitting against his thigh. It feels good having a plan, something tangible that he can do to salvage this season. Just a new step in his original plan, really. Set up, _then_ put up, then shut up. Platt can handle an extra step. Darling won’t know what the fuck hit him.

Franklin doesn’t look convinced. “I don’t know, Platt,” he hedges. “That seems a little bit, um, meddlesome? And I’m not sure Honey will really appreciate-”

“ _Please_ , Franklin.” Platt grabs his shoulders, intending to summon up some latent Sinclair captainly talent for being motivational. It turns out to be not a great call, because he has to stand on his tiptoes to reach better, which is vaguely demeaning. Franklin, ever-accommodating, hunches down ‘til they’re nose-to-nose to make it easier on him, which is somehow even more demeaning. Platt powers through. “You’re the only tolerable person in this country, and you know Darling and Moore really well, just help me with this plan, I’ll do literally anything you ask.”

Franklin blinks those big, guileless eyes at him. “Anything?”


	3. Chapter 3

Platt, as it turns out, is not a good judge of guile and its absence or presence, whatever the fuck guile even is, because the next day that the Flames have off at home, he finds himself lurking in his hotel’s lobby, clinging to the last semblance of normal ‘til he sees Franklin’s car pull up to escort him to the single most embarrassing hobby any grown human could have.

Platt braces himself, hunkers down into his new winter jacket, and makes a run for the car. Probably ends up frostbitten in the twenty seconds that the journey takes, which, like- it’s fucking _November_ , it shouldn’t be this cold yet.

“You’re still living in a hotel?” Franklin asks, all concerned, as Platt launches himself into the passenger side.

“Room service, man,” Platt says, waving him off and squirming to get comfy in his seat, because hotel mattresses are specifically designed to be a literal pain in his ass and his entire back has been achy for the better part of a week.

The drive to Mendoza’s place isn’t bad. It’s _just_ long enough of a journey to the suburbs that Platt ends up sweating in his coat, but he guesses that’s a moot point, because he’s immediately frozen again once they’re parked and prepping to head in.

“Just so we’re clear, I’m only doing this because of our plan,” he says, jogging in place to stay warm as Franklin loads his arms up with books and boxes and more shit than any game should require.

“And because we’re friends?” Franklin asks, all hopeful, and Platt tries very, very hard to give him a stern look.

It’s for his own good, really. There’s a less than zero chance that Platt would be participating in this extracurricular shit if they hadn’t agreed to it as terms for his plan, which are that Franklin helps Platt get Darling and Moore together to fix Darling’s grudge, Platt attends dungeons and dragons until said grudge is fixed. Season ends. Platt gets the hell out.

The point is, is Franklin’s in on the plan because Platt needs him to be. Also, yes, because Platt, like, enjoys being around him and looking at him or whatever, but Franklin’s heart is about as tough as a fucking marshmallow, and if he gets invested, it’ll only hurt him worse when Platt inevitably fails to live up to friend standards.

“I’m getting the fuck out of here as soon as the season’s done, don’t get attached,” Platt reminds him, now, shivering in Mendoza’s driveway. Not a mean reminder, he doesn’t think.

“Too late!” Franklin says, cheerful. He doesn’t say they’re friends again, Platt notices, but he keeps smiling after only the tiniest little falter, bumps his hip to Platt’s so that Platt can’t help but smile, just a little, and very reluctantly. “You’re going to bond with Sweetie for the plan, and him and Joey are going to be in love, and bonus, you’re going to have _so_ much fun, c’mon!”

It’s a real credit to Franklin that his obvious delight at having Platt along for game night is contagious enough that Platt actually feels, like, a miniscule amount of optimism heading up the salted path. It lasts precisely until they reach the front door, which swings open before they even knock to reveal Mendoza, grinning ear to ear.

“Frankie!” He takes some of the stuff from Franklin’s arms, then uses his free hand to mess up Platt’s hair as if Platt is some keener little kid. “Happy to have you, Platt. Opinions on Sinner as a nickname playing on Sinclair?”

“Not even one,” Platt says, optimism dead and gone, already fifty million percent over this entire night. He follows Franklin into the house, kicks off his road-salt covered shoes and steps over the Barbies and plushies and hockey figurines mingled at random all over the floor, only half-listening to Mendoza give the rundown about how his two daughters are asleep in bed, his wife in her office doing some online course so they usually play in the basement to keep it down and be considerate and blah blah blah.

It’s all incredibly wholesome. Family photos all over the place. More Barbies. Platt, who has lived his entire life until very recently in a condo with decor consisting of two recliners, a TV, several framed jerseys and two people’s worth of not-framed hockey gear that his dad always forgot to put in the laundry for weeks – and likes it that way, thank you very much, the day he puts a ‘live, laugh, love’ decal on his wall like the Mendozas is the day he signs up for a voluntary fucking lobotomy – is deeply suspicious.

Once they get to the basement, Mendoza veers off to get snacks, abandoning Platt and Franklin to the other two, already waiting there. CJ is taking up an entire couch. He nods at Platt and returns Franklin’s hug before he goes back to looking stoic, which is like, his natural state. He’s reading over a full page of scribbles in a notebook, which Platt sure as fuck hopes has nothing to do with this game, because he read _maybe_ two pages of the hundred page-long rulebook Franklin sent him but he wouldn’t have read even that much if anyone had mentioned notetaking.

“You didn’t mention notetaking,” he says to Franklin, and he guesses it’s noticeable that he’s a little more than a little tense, now they’re with everyone else, because Franklin grabs his hand and squeezes, just once before letting go. It’s disarming enough, even by affectionate hockey player standards, that Platt doesn’t quite know how to react. How is he _real_?

“You’ll be _great_ , Platt, I promise,” Franklin says, and then, with this little, like, extremely not-subtle wink, “Why don’t you sit with Malcolm?”

Platt looks over at Darling, perched in a corner of the other couch. Darling is on his phone, hardly even spared them a glance when they came downstairs. They haven’t spoken beyond necessities since their big blowup, and Platt’s instinct is to stay the fuck away, but he has to admit Franklin’s got a point. If Platt’s going to matchmake Darling with the tragic pining love of his life or whatever the fuck, ulterior motives aside, he should probably attempt to- not be civil, he’s barely civil even with people he actually likes, but he should probably not act like he _completely_ loathes him. Probably.

Ugh.

He sits on the furthest possible end of the couch from Darling, squashed up against the armrest. His spine thanks him for the chance to use some non-hotel furniture. “Sup,” Platt says.

Darling doesn’t even look at him, which, sure, fine, Platt will just go fuck himself, then.

“Y’know, it wouldn’t kill you to-”

Franklin coughs from over by the table.

Platt grinds his teeth. “May I please borrow a dice?” he forces out, first thing he can think of.

“The singular is ‘die’,” Darling says, without looking up from his phone, and Platt _hates_ people who went to college, and this one person specifically. “As in, it wouldn’t especially bother me if you would crawl back into your hobbit hole and-”

“If I ever gave the impression that I fucking care-”

“Alright, boys.” The argument is defused before it can start as Mendoza makes his way in, armed with a tray of cut up fruit slices. Even the snacks here are terrible. “Mads said if we disrupt her class or wake the girls she’ll send us out to the treehouse, fair warning.”

Franklin looks worried. “Oh no, should we-”

“Not you, Frankie, you know you’re her favourite,” Mendoza cuts him off, patient, and Platt grabs a throw pillow, settles into his corner of the couch so they can get this thing going and over with in short order. Of course, because that – the getting it over with – is what Platt wants, it doesn’t happen, and he comes face to face with the reality that anyone who says hockey is too time consuming an activity has never played dungeons and dragons.

They all look so goddamn stupid.

Like, Platt sits there ready to start, only his character that Franklin helped him make is apparently not even _there_ with the others yet, so he has to sit through all this exposition where CJ and Mendoza and Darling’s fantasy alter egos, because that’s a thing, ask an elf, who is Franklin, directions for how to get to a thief, who is also Franklin, so that they can follow him on the trail of a princess, who Platt feels confident assuming is also Franklin. As if the guy doesn’t have enough on his plate, starting in net for a team like this.

It’s almost forty minutes before they finally start rolling dice and talking about attacking the imaginary snake people that are allegedly attacking them, and Platt is momentarily distracted from his boredom by CJ getting way too excited about hitting said imaginary sneople with magic, and then Franklin is turning to him.

“And then, emerging almost unseen from the woods,” he narrates, all grandly. “A cloaked human suddenly appears behind you, Nem, and you watch as he joins the fray.” He drops the movie trailer voice when he gives Platt a smile, all encouraging. “That’s you!”

“That’s me,” Platt echoes, unenthused, but- he can focus on Franklin, do it for him. Do it for the plan. “So… what?”

“Well, one easy thing is you could attack with your shortbow, maybe?” Franklin suggests. “So roll one of the big chunky ones and add _this_.” He leans across the table and taps one of the gazillion numbers on Platt’s sheet.

Platt does as he’s told, rolls the dice and instantly knows that he’s somehow fucked up, because everyone else winces.

“Nat one,” Franklin says, like that’s an explanation of anything at all. Platt watches him rolling dice behind his little screen, watches him give a matching wince same as the others. “You loose an arrow, aiming for the yuan-ti, but watch as it flies off-target and pierces through the gnome in front of you instead, and Nem, you take- Platt, will you- I’ll do it-” More rolling. The rolling never ends. Neither does the wincing. “Seventeen points of piercing damage.”

CJ flicks over his little figurine, stony-faced. “I’m down.”

“You knocked out Nem,” Mendoza informs Platt, which, yeah, Platt was kind of getting that. Even his fictional character isn’t good for shit.

“What the fuck, Franklin, you said this was fun!” he demands, betrayed.

“Inside voices!” Mendoza scolds, with a wary glance upstairs.

“I am but a tool in the hands of the dice gods, Platt,” Franklin says, all apologetic, like any single part of that sentence made even a little sense, and if Platt wasn’t so fond of him he’d murder him right here and now. “Next in the order is you, Lysander.”

Darling has a look on his face like the one he got when he made Platt fuck up his first draw as a Flame, steely and mean. “Lysander watches the unknown human emerge from the woods and attack Nem, and seeing that, I’m going to attack him with my mace.”

“…Oh no,” Franklin says, very, very quietly.

“We’re on the same fucking team!” Platt wheels on Darling, furious, and Darling just rolls his eyes.

“We don’t even know you, actually, canonically in game, so.”

Mendoza, very obviously attempting damage control, says, in the absolute most horrendous Scottish accent ever attempted, “Hey, new guy, I’m Ragnor, what’s your name?”

“I’m not doing a voice,” Platt informs Franklin, flatly; then, when Franklin makes big eyes at him, pleading, sighs and looks up at the ceiling. “I’m – Jesus fucking Christ – I’m Bruce Wayne the bard. Hello.”

“He named his character after _Batman_?” Darling demands, throwing his hands up in the air. “Franklin, this can’t possibly-”

Franklin looks stricken. “I couldn’t tell him not to-”

“It’s a fucking joke, leave him alone,” Platt snaps at Darling, protective, forgetting to be quiet.

“Why won’t you leave _us_ alone?” Darling snaps right back. “Like, you clearly don’t want any part of this, so why are you even-”

“It’s really fine,” Franklin’s insisting, and Platt admires the optimism, but this is pretty clearly a lost cause. “I think there can be room for comic relief characters if you lean into-”

“Hey, boys, there’s still one more snake person attacking us,” Mendoza tries again.

“I kill it,” Platt says, fed up.

Darling’s forehead vein is threatening to bulge right out of his head. “You can’t just decide to-”

“Nem just failed a death save, if one of you doesn’t revive her I swear to god,” CJ cuts in, and Platt wheels around to gape at him.

“ _Her_?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Darling shoves his tray of dice out of the way in disgust, slamming it against the table and sending dice and all the remaining apple slices bouncing everywhere.

“Daddy?” The stairs creak as this tiny little girl in Flames pajamas descends on the shitshow, yawning. “Why are you guys shouting?”

A woman’s voice echoes down from upstairs, “Rudy, I ask _one_ thing-”

The ensuing chaos is perhaps not Platt’s most dignified exit.

He storms out after things go to shit, intent on getting the fuck out of dodge, which turns out to be a terrible decision because he forgets to ask Franklin for the car key, so he’s locked out and ends up sitting there on the curb, teeth chattering in the cold and already-sore back contorted so he can crouch and wait ‘til Franklin makes his way out and lets him into the car. Platt cranks up the heat all the way, still doesn’t stop shivering until they’re out of Mendoza’s cozy little neighbourhood and back onto the main roads.

Franklin still hasn’t spoken. Platt sneaks a glance at him. Not that helpful in terms of divining anything: Franklin’s eyes are steadily on the road, because of course he’s a perfect driver too, of course he is. This was always another thing Platt was going to ruin. The niceness was nice while it lasted.

He looks down. “I told you it was going to go bad,” he mumbles. It’s _not_ an apology. Apologizing would mean he actually gives a shit. Great players, the kind Platt has to be, don’t waste energy on stuff like this. He can imagine what the snide article would say, _stats like he’s putting up, how can Platt Sinclair justify this_? _No commitment_ and _disappointing_ and _Ryan Sinclair would never_.

Still.

“It could have gone better,” Franklin allows, after a moment. Then, maybe with some effort, “But hey, that’s what practice is for, right?”

Platt shoots him a look, disbelieving. “They hate me.”

“They don’t.”

“Darling does,” Platt argues. “Mendoza and his literal entire family do. Probably CJ does too, because I misgendered and murked his fucking fictional gnome.”

“Well,” Franklin hesitates, so Platt knows he’s right, then says, brightly, “I certainly don’t hate you!”

“Give it time,” Platt says, miserable, and tucks his legs up onto his seat with him, even though the posture is just going to aggravate his back more. Franklin doesn’t yell at him for putting his shoes on the leather. Platt kind of wishes he would. He’d feel less shitty about tonight – because he does, in spite of himself, feel shitty about tonight – if Franklin would just be annoyed or bitchy about it. As is, he just seems mildly sad, which is infinitely worse. Almost feels like disappointing his dad. Not in a weird way, just- Platt doesn’t know what the fuck to do with it. At least his dad has, like, genetic reasons for convincing himself Platt’s not an unlovable piece of shit. He can’t fathom Franklin’s.

They drive in silence a few intersections more.

Platt peeks over at Franklin again. This time, Franklin meets his eyes.

“Are you still going to help with my Darling plan?” Platt blurts.

“We did make a deal,” Franklin says. “…Are you still going to be in the party?” It’s strange, how he says that. He sounds almost as unsure as Platt did. Almost nervous, and Platt sees it again, that same little flicker of worry like after he didn’t agree when Franklin called them friends earlier.

“It’s weird that it’s called a party,” Platt informs him, ‘cause his mouth mostly just makes words by default, at this point. “Like, I don’t know if you’ve ever been to a party but that’s not remotely what they’re like, I think you’re all being lied to.” Franklin raises his eyebrows at him, and he relents. “Yeah, fine, but _only_ for the plan.” Then, because Franklin shouldn’t look worried, Platt doesn’t want that, he mumbles, “And for you, I guess.”

He doesn’t know why he throws that last part in there, but he knows that Franklin’s answering smile is dazzling. His face is a superpower and he does not use it responsibly.

Platt scoots down a little further in his seat, overwhelmed, as Franklin chatters away, filling up the silence the way he normally does.

“You know, it’s actually probably going to be so helpful to have a newcomer’s point of view to get some feedback on DM-ing style and narrative choices and whatnot, I’m really hoping to pick your brain on this stuff! Partly because I feel like perhaps that last encounter was a little unbalanced-”

Platt semi-tunes him out. Tunes mostly everything out, until he glances out the window and recognizes the gas station as they pass it. “My hotel’s that way, you didn’t need to turn,” he says.

“Oh, I have a guest room with a nice mattress,” Franklin says. “Your back, right?”

Platt doesn’t remember telling him about that. “Are you psychic?” he asks, only half joking. He wouldn’t put it past Franklin to have literal superpowers in addition to the whole face thing.

“Goalie secrets,” Franklin says, dead serious, and he looks pleased again when Platt snorts a laugh.

Franklin’s condo is simultaneously more normal and infinitely weirder than Mendoza’s house. No ‘live, laugh, love’ decal, which has to be a win. Pretty generic furnishings through most of the place, except in the living room, which is mostly occupied by Franklin’s absolutely elite gaming setup – real gaming, not just the dice rolling shit, although there’s an absolutely ridiculous amount of that too, shelves full of figurines and tiny scenery and other memorabilia, like Franklin became a pro athlete and immediately bought out every nerd convention for ten thousand miles, not that there’re probably a lot of them here in Canada’s armpit.

Platt noses around a little. It’s obvious that Franklin cares about all this stuff. There’s nothing about _him_ , though. No souvenirs from home or photos with buddies or a partner or anything. Only thing that comes close is a little family photo, a man and a woman next to Franklin at maybe high school age, with his arms around a younger girl and a guy with glasses. Little siblings, Platt guesses. Franklin hasn’t talked about them.

 _Hasn’t talked about them to you_ , Platt’s brain corrects, because why would Franklin have, Platt’s not the kind of guy to inspire big mushy talks and they’re teammates and doing a plan together and that’s it, and it twists like something bitter inside him, this jolt of almost-panic that stays and nags, then a floorboard creaks and he jumps, startled, as Franklin comes back from his room.

“There you go,” he says, handing Platt a pair of sweats and a hoodie, all folded and everything, “They probably won’t fit especially well because you’re fairly compact whereas I’m more, um, vertical? But they should be cozy, at least!”

Platt can’t even dwell on the brutal indignity of being referred to as ‘compact’, still bothered by that nagging feeling. “How come you’re doing this after I fucked up your entire game?” It comes out real suspicious, blunt and borderline confrontational, but Franklin doesn’t look offended.

“When I got called up, I was in a hotel too, for ages,” he says, simple. “I know it’s not a good feeling, feeling like you don’t belong anywhere.” For the smallest moment, he looks almost sad, but then he brightens, maybe a little intentionally. “Also, hotels always kind of smell funny? Is that just me? I feel like perhaps their bulk-purchased cleaning products that they use are-”

“They do smell weird,” Platt agrees, still a little off-balance. No one’s this nice. Generally not to him. Especially not after, like, actually interacting with him for any extended period of time and seeing beyond the Sinclair shine. Especially not when they’re someone like Franklin.

“Hey, I could make hot chocolate!” Franklin suggests. “And we could sit in the living room and I could help you maybe optimize your character better, if you wanted, and we can make more plans for the Darling and Joey thing, and we could even watch a movie or something!”

Platt takes an automatic step back, overwhelmed by the sheer Franklin-ness. “I think I’m just going to turn in,” he says. “Tired, y’know.”

“Oh,” Franklin doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s valid, too!”

Platt takes another step closer to the guest bedroom, then hesitates, lingering in the doorway. “I- Thanks,” he says. It feels simultaneously like too much and not nearly enough. “Or whatever.”

“For the pajamas?” Franklin asks, like he doesn’t know whether to be confused or laugh.

“No,” Platt says. “For-” He gestures lamely around them. Fuck knows what he’s trying to communicate with that. Platt certainly doesn’t.

There’s this weird moment, then, the two of them standing there staring at each other, Platt with an armful of Franklin’s clothes and Franklin sort of half-wringing his hands in front of him like he’s not sure what to do with them. For as big a guy as he is, he carries himself like he’s small, waiting to dodge a hit. Platt wants to say something really smooth and friendly and good enough to demonstrate that he is in literally any way deserving of how Franklin is treating him. Platt does not say that something. Platt does not say anything.

“I’m sorry,” Franklin blurts, speaking really fast all at once. “If- earlier, me saying that we’re friends or bringing you here was assumptive or too much-”

“It wasn’t,” Platt blurts right back, this worry flaring up inside him, _please don’t say we’re not friends_ , which is stupid because he didn’t even realize that Franklin actually somehow _wanted_ to be his friend until right this second, but now that he does, if it gets taken back- “I’d tell you if I didn’t like you.”

He doesn’t know how the fuck to do this.

Franklin blinks at him once, like he’s really processing that, and then this smile dawns on his face, real slow, like a realization. “You would,” he says, then he _giggles_. How is he _real_? “You really would, wouldn’t you?”

It should not sound like a compliment, considering that he is essentially just realizing out loud that Platt is in fact an asshole who compulsively runs his mouth. Franklin says it like a compliment anyways. Platt feels his face reddening.

“...okaygoodnight,” he says, because no chance he’s dealing with that now, and he ducks into the guest room and shuts the door and doesn’t exhale ‘til he hears Franklin’s footsteps moving away, and then they do, and Platt leans his head against the wall, oddly out of breath. Not in a panic way, he doesn’t think? Not in his usual panic way since the Incident, anyhow.

Not a thing. This is not a thing.

He wasn’t lying: he _is_ tired, the result of a week’s worth of games spent mostly hemmed behind his own blue line compounded by whatever unholy mess tonight was. He shrugs out of his clothes, replaces them with the loaner PJs Franklin handed him. Feels deeply stupid when he glances in the mirror and gets a look at himself, because Franklin wasn’t wrong: the hoodie is snug around Platt’s shoulders but hangs down so low it’s like a dress. He has to roll up the sleeves to be able to poke his hands out. Same for the legs of the joggers. They don’t smell weird. There’s that.

There’s also, Platt realizes as soon as he lays down, the fact that Franklin wasn’t wrong about this mattress either. Platt lets out a probably inappropriate-sounding groan as he burrows under the comforter and doesn’t even care a little, that’s how much his spine is thanking him right now, holy _fuck_.

From out in the living room, only a little muffled by the closed door, the sound of the TV blares, a split-second of mid-sentence speaking before it’s muted almost immediately and followed by a distinctly Franklin-ish, “Sorry-sorry-sorry.”

Platt turns his head into his pillow. Realizes he’s smiling.

That’s something, night like tonight. And- he was joking, that first breakfast, but he wonders now, mostly absently, whether Franklin ever would think about playing somewhere else. Wouldn’t be the worst, having him along wherever Platt ends up.

Not that it matters, though, Platt reminds himself, stern, tugging his sleeves down over his hands and yawning as he does. Either the plan works and he gets to sign somewhere competent where he can play good and everyone will know it, or the plan fails and the Flames get sick of him too and ship him out of town. Either way, Platt thinks, snuggling into Franklin’s hoodie, no use in getting comfortable.


	4. Chapter 4

Platt’s not used to losing yet. Possibly ironic, considering everything he’s ever tried and subsequently fucked up irreparably, but- still. It eats away at him, every time. _Annoys_ him, too, almost as much as the fact that it doesn’t seem to annoy half the other guys on the team, and part of that Platt guesses is the kind of survival mechanism you’ve got to develop when management decides to tear it down, but the other part of Platt, the part that grew up attending multiple cup parades, sees the resignation in the Flames’ room and kind of wants to scream.

“Come _on_ ,” he lashes out, frustrated, at Kulik, one of the big defensemen Platt refers to in his head as the optional skate rejects – he’s _not_ learning first names, he fucking refuses – when the whole team is moping around in their stalls before the third period of their afternoon game. “I’ve seen you make that play every practice, you can obviously handle Clarke.”

Shouldn’t have wasted his breath, because they head out there and continue to absolutely suck shit, nothing new, and now Platt’s got another teammate who definitely hates him in addition to a still-losing record. Great, fantastic, amazing.

“That was nice of you to say that to Daniil earlier,” Franklin says, conversational, when they’re waiting that evening for their drinks at the first coffeeshop they found near their hotel. He’s never too low about losses. Never too high about wins, either. Platt guesses it’s what makes him so solid in net. Now, though-

“I wasn’t being _nice_ ,” Platt says, incredulous. “Only you would think that was me being nice.” It comes out significantly more affectionate than chirping. Platt is only capable of so much, around Franklin. He’s a whole lot easier to get used to than the losing. “Anyways, we’re not here to talk about that shitshow, we’re here for-”

He breaks off as the server comes with their drinks. Platt ordered an espresso. Franklin ordered green juice. Franklin has questionable taste in beverages as well as in hobbies and friends.

“For the plan,” Platt finishes in a whisper, once the server leaves. He leans a little over the table to keep the plan hush-hush, eager to get to work and forget today’s game, because he upheld his end of the deal, Sinclair-brand integrity, and now it’s Franklin’s turn.

Franklin leans over too, and copies Platt’s whisper. “I don’t think the patrons of this establishment are concerned about our plan,” he says, and Platt pouts, put out, but perks up once Franklin reaches down into his bag and starts pulling stuff out. And that’s an advantage of Franklin’s nerd shit, that the man owns paper and pencils in excessive quantities, which, while normally kind of hilarious – like, who _writes_? – is convenient in this case, because planning is serious business.

“So, first thing, bonding didn’t work,” Platt says, grabbing the mostly-sharp pencil and writing it down just so he can cross it off the list.

“It might need more time,” Franklin hedges, but Platt shakes his head.

“It was doomed from the beginning, Franklin,” he says, firm. Dungeons and dragons and every single time he and Darling have been on the ice together are evidence enough of that. “We need something _effective_ , we got to think targeted and specific.” He drums the pencil on the table, frowning. “Darling and Moore know each other from school, right?”

Franklin nods, cooperative enough. “They’ve been teammates since they were sixteen, high school then college. Roommates on the road, ‘til Joey left. Um, what else… oh, their parents are really close too, it was always so lovely to see them interact on family trips and events and whatnot!”

“Focus,” Platt orders, but then, because the parent thing might actually be useful, “They’re family friends, the parents still live in the same neighbourhood?”

“I believe they usually spend holidays together, yes!”

“Bingo.” Platt takes a celebratory swig of his espresso, splutters when it scalds his tongue, and tries very, very nobly to recover. “That’s when we spring the trap. We have three weeks to make Darling make a move at Christmas.”

“Snow _is_ inherently romantic,” Franklin agrees, leaning his chin in his hand. It sort of makes him look like a statue, all thoughtful with a little crease between his eyebrows. Platt has never in his life met someone less aware of how frankly rudely adorable they are. “But I was under the impression that neither party being willing to be the one to make a move was sort of our issue, so how would we inspire Malcolm to-”

“We inspire him,” Platt says, scrawling a single word on the page, underlining it three times, then shoving it towards Franklin. “By making it urgent.”

He taps the all-caps _URGENCY_ with the eraser end of the pencil. “I’ll talk up all the hot people Moore’s going to be seeing in Dallas, plant some seeds, make Darling realize there’s no way Moore’s going to be waiting around for him. It’ll scare him into making a move ASAP, it’s perfect.” Nothing makes people feel more desperate than the knowledge that they’re running out of time before an opportunity is fucked up or lost forever. Platt knows that one firsthand. It was exactly a week after his NHL debut when someone commented _can we send him down yet or what hes shit lol_ under the picture of him with his first point puck.

Franklin’s brows furrow even more. “You two aren’t exactly on conversational terms,” he points out. “Won’t Sweetie be suspicious if you’re suddenly chatty?”

Well, shit. “That’s smart.” Platt points the pencil at him. “You’re smart.”

Franklin looks sincerely touched, squirming all pleased in his seat. “Thanks!”

“Suggestions?”

“May I?” Franklin holds out a hand. Platt hands over the pencil, takes a sip of his still-too-hot espresso while Franklin writes _see idea #1,_ then draws an arrow and a big circle around the crossed-out _bonding_ before pushing the paper back towards him.

“Did you miss the part where that failed miserably?” Platt asks. “He attacked me with a mace. I was there for that part. I’m like, ninety percent sure you were also-”

“I’m not suggesting that you two become best friends,” Franklin insists, except it’s perhaps less convincing than it might be since he follows up immediately with, “Even though technically his character Lysander is the one who attacked you and he’s always been pretty martial for a cleric and I honestly believe that you two would get along if you-”

“Franklin,” Platt says. He hopes Franklin never tries to get away with a crime, because he doesn’t have a poker face worth shit, and Franklin must be aware of that, because he caves pretty much instantly.

“Just- be compassionate,” he suggests, then, maybe anticipating Platt’s argument, or just knowing that this is Platt and an argument is pretty inevitably coming, he elaborates. “If you find common ground and let him know that you’re someone who can be trusted, he’s more likely to listen to romantic advice from you, and then he’ll be more amenable to your urgency plan and then, who knows, maybe we all become friends, just, incidentally.”

Platt is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. “Stop trying to stealth-implement your friendship plan,” he orders, as grumpy as he’s capable of being in Franklin’s presence.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that that is what I’m doing,” Franklin says, delicately, and it’s there again, that same little glimpse of deadpan humour that peeks out every now and then. Platt’s, like, kind of obsessed with every single glimpse, even as he’s half-convinced he’s imagining them, because that’s always all they are, glimpses, before Franklin catches himself every time.

It’s Platt being a cynic, is what it is, probably. It’s him looking for a flaw. Him thinking Franklin’s too good to be true. He _is_ too good to be true. He has to be. No real person’s that perfect.

He also has a point, as much as Platt doesn’t want to admit it. Hard to inspire urgency if Platt can’t convince Darling to tolerate a conversation with him, so, even though last time he tried to be the bigger person Darling called him a hobbit and told him to go die in a hole, Platt returns to their shared hotel room post-coffee with Franklin, buoyed by espresso and a plan and the desire to get this the fuck over with.

Platt flops down onto his bed. Looks over at the other, where Darling is sitting cross-legged, reading the same book he’s been working on since the trade. Platt’s planning to, like, ease into things, to broach the topic naturally and casually. Darling fucks up the plan, as is his tendency.

“Can you not stare at me? Your eyes are extremely beady,” Darling says. He can’t be _that_ bothered, because he doesn’t even look to Platt’s bed as he says it, just stays reading, doing his standard ‘too bored for this conversation’ face, even though he’s the one who literally just talked first.

 _Common ground_ , Platt thinks, biting back a retort, and makes a go of it. “I wasn’t being an asshole about the Moore thing, the other day,” he says, figuring he’ll target the easiest thing to fix first. “I also like guys, so.”

Darling does not look particularly relieved at the revelation that Platt is a regular asshole instead of a homophobic one. “We’re not going to be friends just because we’re both gay, I’m telling you that right now.”

However much an asshole Platt is, this guy’s got him beat. “I was trying to be friendly, fuckface.”

Darling fixes him with an utterly flat look, somehow expectant and pre-emptively dismissive all at once. “How is you making a statement about your orientation you being friendly?”

“Jesus, fuck you, forget I said anything,” Platt says, annoyed, kicking his sheets to the bottom of the bed just to do something.

It’s a _real_ pointed gesture when Darling turns his page in response.

Platt glowers at the wall. Summons up all of his will power to think What Would Franklin Do and then has to dismiss that thought immediately, because Franklin would never be in this situation because Darling would be physically incapable of hating his guts. Still, Sinclairs don’t quit, and Platt _needs_ those passes to start coming his way.

“I was just, like-” he starts, and Darling snaps his book shut as soon as Platt talks, makes a whole show of turning and listening like it’s the most grueling thing in the world. Platt powers through. “I get it.”

It comes out just the most lame, after school special thing ever to leave his mouth, and they both know it.

“Your bizarre teenage puppy love thing with Franklin does not compare,” Darling says, snippy.

“There’s no-” Platt forces himself to talk calmly instead of snapping, even as he feels himself going red. Darling doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. Acting like Platt’s some stupid kid with a crush. “I _meant_ I get the gay thing, I’m not stupid enough to get hung up on someone-” He breaks off before he can say ‘perfect’, because he knows for a fact Darling would have a field day with it. “Someone like Franklin.”

“Like Franklin,” Darling echoes, questioning. He looks like he wants to laugh at Platt, having a field day anyhow.

Platt scowls. “On someone who could get taken away the second a GM decides they like some shiny new toy better,” he amends. Can’t resist the parting shot, “Unlike you, so.”

“You being the shiny new toy, in this metaphor,” Darling says, flat.

“I mean, yeah, compared to Moore,” Platt says, then, belatedly remembering that he’s supposed to be compassionate, “No offense.”

“Joey’s worth a fucking hundred of you,” Darling says. It’s not even an insult, way he says it, or at least not mainly an insult, not as much as it’s a statement of fact. He believes himself, total conviction, this look on his face that Platt’s never seen there before. “A hundred of anyone, he’s the best person on the planet.”

And it’s stupid, because Darling’s the one talking, but Platt feels, like- embarrassed? Embarrassed by proxy? Darling just says that cheesy-ass statement plain as day and it throws Platt right off, because he doesn’t know what to do with people not being embarrassed about their objectively embarrassing feelings.

“Well,” he says, still a little wrongfooted. “That was romantic as shit, Malcolm Darling.”

Darling makes this sound that, if Platt’s ears do not deceive him, is, miracle of miracles, a laugh. Like, the universe’s most reluctant, uptight snort of an excuse for a laugh, but still a laugh.

“You know there’s like, a lot of other options for him around the city,” Platt says, casual as anything, pressing his advantage. “People are going to be into him. You gonna do anything about it?”

“Why do you think I haven’t?” Darling says, and Platt maybe doesn’t hide the fact that his mouth drops open in shock all that well, because Darling visibly closes off. “I’m finishing my book now,” he announces. Not laughing anymore.

“What do you mean you-”

“None of your business whatsoever,” Darling says, and if its absent his usual utter loathing, it’s not friendly, either – whatever brief moment of camaraderie there was between them disappears, poof, and Darling rolls over so his back’s to Platt, and eventually, Platt hears his pages turning again, and that’s that.

\---

“I’m telling you,” Platt tells Franklin, typing rapid-fire as he speaks. “Something happened.”

Franklin handed over his phone without even asking why Platt wanted it. He’s not even watching him type now, just looking around the plane, all nervous. “I really don’t know if we’re supposed to be using our phones,” he’s fretting. “Something about interfering with signals? That might be an urban legend, though, I suppose I don’t really know how planes work…”

Platt keeps typing as the plane keeps taxiing along the runway and Franklin keeps worrying. He usually sits by himself, and Franklin usually sits with his backup, but sorry, mediocre Finnish guy whose name possibly starts with a T but that Platt has not bothered to remember, Platt’s got plans and also a Plan to discuss.

“Darling got all stuffy about it when I asked why he hadn’t sucked it up and told Moore,” he says, half to himself, as he skims over his drafted message. “Like, more than usual, I mean, and he implied that he _did_ tell him, or like, _something_ , so something went down, I bet you anything, we just need to find out what.”

Franklin hums. “But if something did happen, it clearly wasn’t enough to get them together, so why-”

“Because,” Platt says, hitting send with a flourish. “We can _use_ that something to put more pressure on Darling to finally make a move. It’s _strategy_ , Franklin, like- dice rolling, and whatever.”

“I know you’re only referencing D&D to convince me,” Franklin says. “It’s working though!” He accepts his phone when Platt hands it back. “Oh, thank you, what did you need-” He breaks off with a little ‘eek’ as he looks down at the screen, then at Platt, wide-eyed. “You texted Joey?”

“Well, it’s not like Darling’s going to tell me what I need,” Platt shrugs.

“Platt!”

Platt has to avert his gaze, because texting Moore was the best option, he knows it, but he’s also only human and not immune to Franklin’s big, sparkly, _how could you do this most terrible awful of things_ eyes. “Don’t do the face thing, it’s not fair, I’m not looking-”

“I don’t know what the ‘face thing’ is-”

Franklin’s phone buzzes, and they both break off. Platt leans in to try to read the response while Franklin looks around them like he thinks one text is going to combust the plane right there on the runway.

It was a pretty good fake text, on Platt’s part. He used his best Franklin impersonation, kept his message to Moore real simple and open-ended, just, _Hi Joey!! Are you and Sweetie okay?_ He also added like six different smiling emojis the way Franklin always does. For realism.

Moore’s reply, the tiny little bubble on Franklin’s screen, is one word: _why???_

“Let me answer him, let me answer him,” Platt urges, scrambling for the phone, and Franklin is generally flawless but also apparently not above using his height to his advantage, because he leans halfway into the aisle, holding the phone out of Platt’s reach, and starts typing himself. Platt scrabbles at him a few more seconds before switching to craning his neck to see what he’s writing. He’s a little worried that maybe Franklin’s going to blow the whole thing, but apparently Nahmouds have Sinclair-brand integrity too, when it comes to sticking to plans, because Franklin writes, after a moment’s thought, _He’s seemed kind of sad since you left? Not that we’re not all sad you’re gone but Malcolm seemed really really sad so I wanted to make sure everything was alright with both of you!!!_

He adds a whole string of emojis before hitting send. Platt grins in spite of himself, and Franklin must notice, because he explains, “I just want to make sure my message doesn’t sound like I’m mad at him.”

“Aw,” Platt says, only partway chirping, and Franklin gets this glint in his eyes, then taps away from the thread with Moore.

“What’re you doing?” Platt asks, when Franklin opens up the D&D groupchat that Platt removed himself from two weeks ago. Then, once he realizes _why_ Franklin’s opening the chat, “Nonono-”

He’s already re-added to the group.

“Since I’m on my phone anyway,” Franklin says, all innocent, except for how Platt’s ninety-nine percent sure that that was partway to a chirp as well, or at least as close to chirping as Franklin ever gets.

Platt pouts at him. He means it to be a scowl, but can’t quite manage it. He knows, see, that this is just Franklin trying to be kind or whatever, that he doesn’t get that all his friends don’t want Platt around any more than necessary. Not even Franklin’s fault for not realizing it, ‘cause why would he be on the lookout for that kind of stuff, if he’s used to everyone loving him?

They both lean in, heads close, to read the next message that arrives from Moore.

 _its complicated frankie_ , he wrote. Took a long while to send, for such a short sentence, and Platt watches the dots appear and disappear on the screen maybe thirty more seconds before a follow-up comes, _you don’t have to be worried about it i promise._

It’s less forthcoming than Platt was hoping. Kind of… sadder, too, like maybe Darling’s not the only one going through it. Feelings: conclusively garbage for everyone involved. Platt knew it already. Still.

He watches Franklin think about it, chewing his lip, before tapping out a reply.

 _Okay! I was also just wondering because Platt (the guy who came here in your trade!! he’s really nice!!!)_ – Platt scoffs as he sees Franklin type that – _mentioned that he knew someone here who he thinks might be a great match for Malcolm romantically and I told him to maybe wait to make sure that you’d be okay with it!! But you are so it’s okay haha!!!_

“Urgent time pressure, right?” Franklin says, meeting Platt’s eyes after hitting send, and Platt half-laughs, half-gapes at him, impressed by the deviousness. Who’d have thought Franklin had it in him?

“ _Nice_ ,” Platt says, sincere.

“That makes two of us,” Franklin says, and then he gives Platt this pleased little grin like he thinks that what he just said was some kind of super badass comeback, and it takes Platt a moment to, A, realize that Franklin’s still on the ‘Platt being nice’ thing with Kulik from yesterday, and B, recover the power of speech after being whacked with the full, lethally dorky-cute combo of a Franklin smile.

“I’m going to let you get away with that terrible attempt at calling me nice,” Platt informs him, hiding his own grin. “But only if I get to crash in your guest room again when we land.” He says it impulsively, pushing his luck and fully expecting to get brushed off for it. He doesn’t.

“You could do that anyways,” Franklin says, almost- reproachfully? Like he thinks Platt should’ve known that already, and the straightforward truth of his voice warms Platt, inside-out.

“You’re too good a person,” Platt says, truth-for-truth, and that makes Franklin smile all over again, casting his eyes downward, almost flustered the way he gets every time Platt compliments him, though he recovers quick.

“I don’t know quite how to tell you this,” Franklin says, solemn. “But I think your standards might be a little bit low.”

Platt rolls his eyes, elbows Franklin just enough to carve out room on the armrest between them; plan safely in action, they both settle in for the flight as the seatbelt sign comes on, Franklin taking out his weird goalie mentalism journal, Platt fishing his headphones from his bag.

Walking past on his way to his seat near the front, Kulik messes up Franklin’s hair. “Sup, Frankie,” he says, casual as anything. Then, leaning over to reach the window seat, he messes up Platt’s, too. “Hey, Platt, not sitting by yourself, rad.”

Platt shrinks into his seat, dodging away from the touch, and frowns after Kulik’s retreating back, hackles up. He thinks he was getting mocked? Like, noogie-as-elaborate-short-joke mocking, like implying that Platt’s a loser or whatever for not forcing his company on people? But- Kulik talked to Franklin, too, and he wouldn’t mock Franklin.

He can’t actually think- yesterday-

Platt wasn’t being _nice._

He jumps, startled out of his spiral and then immediately embarrassed by it, when Franklin nudges his fingertips to Platt’s where their hands are hanging off the shared armrest. It’s barely even a touch, might even have been an accident if Platt couldn’t feel Franklin watching him, but it snaps Platt back, reminds him to breathe. He waits for Franklin to make fun of him for the niceness thing again, maybe for the almost-panic, but he doesn’t, not even once, almost like he knows.

Platt links his finger with Franklin’s, some clumsy index-finger pinky swear. He doesn’t know why he does it. Gratitude, maybe. Something dumb like that.

They stay sharing the armrest, even after Platt lets go. And Franklin doesn’t complain when Platt falls asleep on his shoulder, and if it’s not exactly _nice_ , if Platt’s not, it’s not the worst plane ride of his life, either.


	5. Chapter 5

There’s an age, probably, when Platt’s supposed to stop conceptualizing the whole month of December as one of those chocolate calendars counting down to Christmas, but whatever it is, he hasn’t reached it yet. That’s what a plan’ll do for you, he guesses, the same kind of structured buildup, only now, instead of opening a little flap and finding a tiny, stale chocolate, Platt’s everyday becomes another chance to matchmake his way out of his scoring slump.

He and Franklin get into a real good rhythm as the days and games tick by. They trade off strategies, taking turns messaging Moore and trying to nudge Darling into the urgency thing, or at least to get the two of them past ‘it’s complicated’. Some more ambitious plans, too, like conspicuously planting reminders of Moore and Darling’s college team around the Flames’ facility to evoke memories – Franklin’s idea, results solely in Darling getting all pissy and thinking he’s being pranked by one of the Michigan state guys – or trying brainwashing techniques from a YouTube video – Platt’s idea, results in Darling locking Platt in the hotel hallway and refusing to let him back into their room until he apologizes and swears to ‘stop being so _juvenile_ , Sinclair, honestly’.

Not the worst a plan has ever gone for Platt, truthfully.

They’ve still had no luck getting Darling to admit what, if anything, went down between him and Moore before the trade, or with getting Darling to say more than maybe two extremely terse sentences to Platt at a time, but it’s still something to focus on, something other than, A, how much this team sucks ass, and B, how _obscenely_ fucking cold it is at literally all times. Like, Platt doesn’t even know why he bothered packing any of his old clothes, since t-shirts and gameday suits and one shearling jacket aren’t worth shitall when it’s like stepping into a freezer every time he goes outside. He accidentally-on-purpose keeps one of the hoodies he borrows from Franklin at a sleepover. Just for warmth reasons. ‘Cause it’s big.

Platt’s wearing the stolen hoodie as he lounges around in his Calgary hotel room, chewing absently on the drawstring while he namesearches himself and skims over the results. He guesses it counts as a bad habit, how often he reads about himself. Knows most guys avoid it. Most front offices advise avoiding it. Which is just- it’s a stupid strategy, thinking that keeping yourself clueless about something is the same as it not existing or not mattering.

People say shit. It matters. Better not to let yourself be surprised by it.

Tonight’s search isn’t bad. The Flames fanbase as a whole doesn’t seem to openly resent Platt as much as the Stars fans did. Platt guesses it helps that all the middle-aged sportswriters aren’t working off decades of watching his dad play every night. Not that there’s not the usual, unescapable baseline level of Ryan Sinclair related hysteria.

“-and I mean, not to put too fine a point on it, but your dad was literally the reason I started playing, I mean, I even think about that gold medal goal and I get- look, chills, I have literal chills.” Kulik shoves his arm in Platt’s face, enthusiastic, and Platt ducks out of the way, trying to disguise the movement in a stretch.

He’s figured out a gym strategy that mostly consists of working out near CJ, because he just straight up doesn’t talk and is also intimidating enough that most of the Flames give him and therefore Platt a wide berth. Most of the Flames, except for Kulik- Daniil- whatever, who seems to be under the mistaken impression that he and Platt are friends now. He’s not even in the D&D group. Everyone on this team is delusional.

“He was shooting for the tip,” Platt says – a lie, so he won’t have to admit to practicing the wrister from the dot every time he got on the ice for weeks, ‘til he could replicate the play exactly – and CJ smirks into his next lunge, while Daniil gives a dreamy sigh.

“Is he as handsome in person?”

Platt decides he’s done working out for the day.

He scores again in their loss in LA. The goal gets given to CJ on the replay. It burns in Platt right through to their next game, against Edmonton, and he comes out fired up, plays fired up too. Races down the boards in the second, skates full force into the nearest Oiler to bump him off the puck. Bumps pretty hard, he guesses, because he ends up watching Mendoza’s dish to Darling for the tying goal from under two hundred-something pounds of sweaty dude in orange. Platt doesn’t even get an official assist for his trouble, not that it matters, since the Flames blow it with twenty seconds left. Platt dives to block the winning shot, ends up skidding pathetically into the net after the puck.

“Sorry,” he says, and Franklin pats him on the helmet with his glove, his eyes still real focused behind the shimmery gold and red of his helmet. He looks real good. That makes one of them.

The team trudges back to the room – the walk is getting familiar – and listens to the usual ‘please god at least pretend to stay motivated while we tank’ speech from the coaching staff. Pretends to listen.

Platt doesn’t even bother changing out of his gear, trailing after Wahlstrom as he leaves.

“Coach,” he says, and Wahlstrom stops for him to catch up, gives Platt a tired almost-smile.

“Really good hustle on that last play, Platt,” he says, and Platt scowls.

“We lost,” he says, and Wahlstrom makes a sound, not quite dismissive, but not agreeing either.

“Ah, not because of you.”

Platt looks at him, hard, because ‘we didn’t lose because of you’ isn’t good enough, nowhere close. _Platt’s_ not good enough yet. He has to do better. And not just him, either.

He says what he wanted to say, because he’s never been good at doing anything else. “You shouldn’t have put out CJ and Harden to close it out,” he says, blunt. “And if you were going to, you should’ve taken the timeout first. They were obviously gassed from being on the PK, like, the entire period ‘cause we don’t have enough competent killers, which was stupid ‘cause we ruined our best game since I got here, like- this is the first time we actually almost fought back and all the guys in there _want_ to care but they can’t since we never win.” He catches himself. Adds, still, “So- like, fix the penalty kill. Is what we have to do.”

Wahlstrom raises an eyebrow. Looks a little like he’s trying not to laugh. “Opinion noted.”

“In a respectful way, I meant,” Platt adds, fast, even though he did very much just call his coach stupid, fuck his life, but-

“Also noted,” Wahlstrom says again, then pats his arm. “Thanks for caring enough to come talk about it, Platt.”

Platt narrows his eyes at him, suspicious, but Wahlstrom just looks sincere, which is in itself suspicious, and even more suspicious is how Platt gets to the rink the next afternoon and learns that he’s going to be getting reps on the penalty kill, which- he doesn’t know if it’s like, a challenge or what, but generally when he opens his mouth to coaches or pretty much any authority figure it results in him getting called a mouthy knowitall brat behind his back and semi-frequently to his face, so a challenge is better than that, he guesses.

“It’s suspicious, right?” he asks Franklin anyways, later, when they’re in Franklin’s kitchen debating the ethics of making a fake Tinder profile to try to catfish-slash-reverse psychology Darling into some Moore-related jealousy. “Like, why would he say that?”

“Um,” Franklin says, setting glasses of water down for both of them. “Potentially because you’re very good at hockey and he likes what you’ve brought to the team and wants it to work out long term?”

Long term. As if. Except- okay, Platt would die, literally willingly die before admitting it out loud, but he’s kind of proud in spite of himself, then, ‘cause it’s a pretty good feeling, the idea that a good coach thinks Platt’s good too. Thinks Platt’s worth listening to even though he’s bad at making words sound respectful and he can’t possibly be living up to what Wahlstrom was hoping for when his GM traded for a Sinclair.

Platt scratches at the countertop. “Hmph,” he says, and pretends not to notice when Franklin hides a smile, even though it’s a pretty nice one.

He doesn’t manage to coax Franklin around to the catfishing plan. Platt isn’t _too_ bothered by that, not because of ethics or whatever – what kind of good plan has _ethics_ – but because he and Darling make it through a whole weekend roadtrip as roomies without a single big argument, and because Franklin reports back from his Skype movie night with Moore that Moore had a ‘distinct air of contemplation’ during the love confession scene of whatever rom-com they watched, which Platt translates out of Franklin and into normal as ‘progress’.

_Progress_ , Platt repeats to himself after their next loss puts them at one-and-seven in December; _progress_ after he gets a beauty of an assist on a shorty and Darling actually grants him a tiny smile. _Progress_ when he finds a pair of winter boots with treaded-up soles so he can stop sliding around every time he steps on icy pavement.

It’s progress, too, when Platt worms his way out of the Flames’ holiday party – non-existent great aunt’s funeral – and a stupid on-camera secret Santa exchange for the team’s YouTube channel – Platt just scrawls ‘no.’ on the scrap of paper when PR tells him to write his name. He doesn’t quite manage to scheme his way out of D&D, which is irritating, but not as much as it could be, since it turns out that Franklin’s like, weirdly good at telling stories and it’s not that Platt actually _cares_ or anything, ‘cause hockey’s his priority and he’s not stupid enough to get distracted and risk it affecting his play, but- it’s hard not to pay attention, is all. Just out of curiosity, because they learned two sessions ago that the princess they’ve been searching for is really an evil necromancer, and Platt was totally the first one to realize it ‘cause his character Bruce Wayne is really good at perceiving, even though it doesn’t really help because when they try to ambush her the party ends up being cornered by an entire zombie cult and has to fight for their lives.

“-and as the priestess lurches forward, unnaturally contorted,” Franklin narrates, mirroring the movement and doing his most evil face, “the jet of neon purple light streaks out from her palm and towards you, Nem, since you’re the one who’s been targeting her, with a fourteen to hit.”

CJ nods, grim, and when Darling curses, Platt finds himself doing the same. Finds himself leaning forward in his seat as well. Purely from a sense of competition. They made it to OT before losing last night. This feels like that.

“Fucking wizards, you’re _squishy_ ,” Mendoza says, in his character Ragnor’s terrible, honestly almost Shrek-esque voice. “Anyone has any potions left for when Nem’s down again, or-”

As one, they all look over at Darling, ‘cause Lysander’s literal entire job is to heal them and every week he blows all his spells on offense, _not_ that Platt cares, but like, try for some fucking strategy, Pookie. “I have no spells left.”

It’s at that point that Platt meets Franklin’s eyes, mostly by accident, and watches Franklin’s gaze flicker down to Platt’s character sheet, very not by accident.

Platt looks where Franklin’s looking. “Uh, I do cutting word,” he says, weirdly flustered, considering none of this stupid imaginary battle is actually happening. Tell his heart that. “Say cutting word? For my reaction on that attack, before it hits.”

“What do you tell the priestess, Bruce Wayne?” Franklin encourages, and Platt casts around for something cool to say.

“Hands off the gnome, dipshit,” he decides, and he’s holding his breath right along with the others as he rolls his dice and waits for Franklin to subtract it from the princess-priestess’ attack.

“Does an eleven hit?” Franklin asks, and CJ shakes his head, gives the biggest smile that Platt’s ever seen from him as Mendoza whoops.

“Fuckin’ A!” he hollers, kids in bed and wife in online class forgotten, holding up his hand, and Platt has literally never celebrated anything not sports-related in his life, let alone saving the life of a fictional wizard gnome, but he gives Mendoza the high five he’s asking for, finds himself holding back a grin as Franklin pretends to be mad his attack didn’t hit and even Darling participates in Mendoza’s celebratory shoving. So fucking weird.

“This is so lame,” Platt says, helpless. It stays lame when Nem- CJ- CJ’s not-dead gnome uses her turn to fireball and completely explode the rest of the cult and Platt’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, like he literally just won a battle with these guys. It absolutely stays lame. It _does_.

It’s snowing a little when they’re all filing out around midnight, the wet kind that’s mostly just opaque, greyish rain, but shittier. The rest of Mendoza’s neighbourhood is late-night quiet and still, some of the houses opposite decked out in multi-coloured lights for the holidays, one with one of those godawful inflatable minions in a Santa hat to complete the suburban kitsch nightmare-scape.

Platt’s lingering on the porch, half-listening to Franklin and Darling chatting as they wait for CJ to clear the ice off his car and pull out first, since he blocked them all in the driveway. Platt’s got one of his gloves off so he can check his phone, whatever he’s missed in the – holy fuck – four and a half hours they were playing. It’s not much, at least he doesn’t think so at first: his dad replying to Platt’s usual check-in and pretending like he didn’t only remember to call his sister for her birthday ‘cause Platt reminded him to. A couple notifications from whatever team reporters Platt’s got alerts set for so he can read what they’re saying about him.

He clicks one of the notifications at random, intending to skim over the headline. Maybe a few sentences. Only one of those few sentences goes _snazzy underlying analytics and what looks like effort don’t make up for_ _team success and putting the puck in the net; what’s more, the idea that Sinclair the younger’s much-noted sense of entitlement has suddenly been cured strains this writer’s credulity_ , and it’s not like Platt can read that and stop, and he finds himself reading every word, words like _buyer’s remorse_ and _not like Joey Moore or (God forbid) the original Sinclair_ for paragraphs and paragraphs that end with _Wishfully thinking Flames fans, it might be time to face the reality that sometimes, the apple really does fall far from the tree_.

Platt can’t make himself take a breath.

He knew- they’ve always said this kind of stuff, he knew that, he knows that, but it’s been quieter since being here, and he thought- he’s been playing a bigger role on the team, and he hasn’t freaked out in front of anyone since that first game, and a couple reporters wrote nice stuff, and it’s not like _all_ the guys have been acting like they hated him or thought he was entitled, recently, and all any of that means, Platt realizes, standing there frozen still on Mendoza’s doorstep, panic hitting him like a train, is that he’s been letting himself slack.

He doesn’t know when he folded his arms in against his chest. He dropped the glove he took off. He doesn’t care. He feels like he’s holding his breath, the familiar feeling he gets, except he can’t make himself _stop_ holding it, like it’s stuck there, his lungs constricting in on themselves. This is why he needed the plan. Needs the plan. He needs to get out of here. He needs to be better. He needs-

“What’s your deal?” Darling asks, not unkindly, his car keys jingling as he catches them in his hand. Platt didn’t know he was watching.

“None of your business,” Platt gets out, and now Franklin’s looking at him too, all concerned, and Platt just- can’t, right now, but he can’t stand letting them see him like this either, so he shoulders roughly between both of them, jogs down the steps toward the sidewalk and, once he’s there, forces himself to suck in a breath. The air feels like shards of ice. Barely feels like breathing at all. The sleet hits against his face, hard, _tap-tap-tap_ and his next breath is harder than the first.

He needs to be better than this. He can’t do the anxiety thing, here. Can’t ruin things for himself even more.

He thinks he can feel the others still staring after him. Doesn’t let himself look back to know, one way or another.

\---

Platt stays in bed ‘til four PM on Christmas Eve. Only gets up because his stomach is making some deeply concerning noises, so he grabs the Styrofoam container of yesterday’s leftover pasta from the minifridge and eats it sitting there on the carpet.

He’s not exactly in the holiday spirit. Not exactly or at all. That’s due, among other things, to the facts that, in addition to the lingering bitterness of that last article about what a piece of shit he is, it’s been snowing for the last three days, and that Darling, who very much _was_ in the holiday spirit, called him an elf during their last practice. Even Franklin smiled. Darling’s hardly even _tall_.

Platt scowls at his reflection, warped in the stainless steel of the fridge. He won’t know if the urgent time pressure plan worked ‘til after the break, and he’s not about to text Franklin if he’s doing family shit, and even if he wanted to talk to any of the other Flames or they wanted to talk to him, he’s basically on his own for two entire days, now most everyone’s flown home for the holidays. Not even like it’d be worth Platt flying down to Dallas, ‘cause his dad is across a literal entire ocean in Helsinki for World Juniors, officially to inspire all the Stars’ prospects with his presence, unofficially to give a couple rah-rah speeches for the USA boys same as he always does.

Platt figures he’ll maybe watch the Cowboys tomorrow afternoon. Maybe order more food at some point soon, because this leftover pasta is somehow simultaneously mushy and far too dry and it’s really not doing it for him.

_Big plans_ , he thinks. Grumbles, more like, even just in his head.

Platt hates this fucking room. This whole city.

He kills time, still sat in his spot on the floor a while past when he’s done eating, by seeing how many times he can stab the takeout box with his fork. He’s in the middle of making little rows of dents three at a time, when there’s a knock on the door.

Platt looks around the empty room, stupidly, as if that’s going to answer who’s showed up. He didn’t order room service, and housekeeping is good about listening to his ‘do not disturb’ sign. Though, honestly, he reasons as he steps over his laundry pile on the way to the door, it’s been a while. Maybe they like. Smelled his workout clothes through the walls or something.

He shakes off the dirty sock that’s clinging to his current sock and squints into the peephole, then yanks the door open so fast he nearly tears his arm off with it.

“Franklin?” he asks, which, no shit, it’s Franklin, standing there with his cheeks and nose windbitten pink, his eyes peeking out from the space between his knit scarf and hat, half of which is occupied by his curls, all windswept and in his face. He’s busy kicking snow off his shoes, though he meets Platt’s eyes as he flings the door open.

“It _is_ Franklin!” he waves, offering Platt a bright smile. “Hi!”

“Hey,” Platt says, after a second. A long second. It’s like- Franklin’s in his doorway looking like a fucking Hallmark movie, like Platt didn’t fully spend the whole ride back from their last D&D game trying not to spiral into a panic attack like a freak, and Platt’s _so_ happy to see him, like, taken aback by how happy he feels before he’s even processed his presence properly, and then a little freaked out by the intensity of his own reaction once he does. That happy.

Because he’s still himself, that happy-freaky feelings combo manifests as mild violence. He shoves Franklin, no real force behind it. “Why the fuck were you driving in this, that’s not safe.”

“The main roads aren’t too bad,” Franklin waves him off – _Canadians_ , Platt thinks despairingly – and then blinks, almost like he’s just as surprised as Platt. “Oh, wow.”

Platt holds onto the doorframe, self-conscious. “What?”

“You’re smiling so big,” Franklin says, and Platt is so embarrassed he wants to climb out of his skin.

“I’m not,” Platt says, in lieu of actually doing that, and tries not to sound eager when he asks, rapid fire, “Why are you even still in town? Why’re you here? Are you coming in?”

Franklin shakes his head. “No, but you’re coming out!” Then, right away, “Oh, I feel like that sounded bossy, I’ll rephrase. I meant please come out.”

Platt breathes out, a mostly-disbelieving laugh. He’s still in his sweats from yesterday. “Where?”

“We’re having dinner with Mendoza and Maddy!”

“This wasn’t part of our plan,” Platt says, because it’s the first excuse that comes to mind, and he needs an excuse, ‘cause he can think of maybe two things – _maybe_ two – worse than the concept of sitting there at some family event knowing that no one except Franklin actually wants him there. “I don’t want to, like, crash their dinner on Christmas.”

“Good news, none of us are Christian, so you’re only crashing our dinner on an unremarkable Thursday!” Franklin says, brightly. “Um, unless an appeal to Christmas spirit is the only thing that will entice you to come, I’ve watched the movies, that’s usually effective.”

For the record, whatever the fuck the Christmas spirit is, it’s not that that makes Platt go. He’s not sure what ridiculous, probably Franklin-induced impulse it is that _does_ make him agree to get dressed and attend dinner, but he regrets it as soon as they survive their drive through a literal fucking blizzard and arrive at the Mendozas’, ‘cause Mendoza’s two daughters have been asleep every other time Platt’s been here, but meeting them properly for the first time, Platt immediately decides that he loathes them. He and Franklin are barely through the door when the terrible tiny Mendozas steal Franklin away to play, leaving Platt to get herded into the kitchen and then, when Mendoza leaves to fetch stuff from the cellar, promptly abandoned with Mendoza’s wife, Madeline, who’s sitting with a glass of wine and watching the oven timer tick down.

She switches to watching Platt, real appraisingly. Feels like the combine all over again. Maybe even more judgey.

Platt looks at the cluttered countertop. School lunch bags. Keys. Pill organizer. Mail. He runs out of stuff to look at quick. Is still being watched when he peeks at Madeline again.

“So,” she says, after a pause that Platt’s like ninety percent sure is solely intended to make him squirm. “You’re the edgelord new guy who woke my kids and disrupted my class because you got mad over a board game.”

Platt’s never been good at not running his mouth, and he doesn’t start now. “Why are you still doing classes?” he retorts. “Were you just, like, incredibly bad at school so it’s taking you a bunch of tries, or…”

Madeline laughs instead of getting all offended, which Platt guesses is probably good. “Are you old enough to drink?”

“I’m twenty-one-” Platt starts before he realizes that she’s chirping him, and scowls at her once he does. Madeline just grins again, gestures for him to come sit and pours him his own glass. Platt chugs half of it in one shot. “What are you making?” he throws out, a conversational life raft.

“Vegan casserole.”

Oh, fucking great. “Are you vegan?”

“Nope,” Madeline says, popping the P. “Are you?”

“...No,” Platt says. She’s got her chin resting on her folded arms, looks like she’s laughing at him and his manners. Platt cannot actually fathom how Mendoza is the least annoying member of his marriage. He wishes he had his headphones. Also Franklin. Also, absurdly, that he was here for D&D, because at least then he has a framework for why he’s interacting in his free time with people he’s actively plotting to escape from at the end of this season. Which, like, holy fuck, this is how far he’s fallen, that he’s actually thinking longingly of when he had a bigass rulebook telling him what to do socially.

“Is Men-” he breaks off, realizes it’s probably weird to refer to Mendoza as Mendoza to another Mendoza. “Is Rudy, like, legitimately into the dungeons and dragons shit, or is it a team building strategy thing?”

Madeline sighs. “Oh, he’s fully into it.”

“I mean... _why_?” Platt asks.

“Do I fucking know?” Madeline leans in, all conspiratorial. “I mean, is it just me, or is it extremely weird, with the imagination and like, describing actions-”

“I _know_ ,” Platt enthuses, and, okay, he’s not revising his opinion on Madeline or the stupidity of hanging out with people he’s trying to escape at the end of this season, but it’s not _completely_ terrible, he guesses, sitting in the kitchen and commiserating about getting roped into geek shit by proximity.

“The voices, I fucking can’t with the voices-”

Madeline’s nodding, eager, “Oh my god, and he gets so excited to make a character, like, are they not all literally the same Tolkien ripoffs?”

“Well,” Platt says, momentarily pausing in the mutual bitching, “like, no, bards can do a lot of spells and shit the others can’t, it’s helpful to have an array of different classes or whatever, but-”

“Want some more wine with that kool-aid you’re drinking, nerdass?” Madeline asks, laughing, and Platt rolls his eyes, but grins too, and just barely manages to wipe it from his face as Mendoza – like, Mendoza-Mendoza, man Mendoza. Man-doza? – wanders in, sets down his armful of jars, and kisses Madeline’s temple, looking amusedly between her and Platt.

“I knew you two would get along,” he says, all smug, then, to Platt, “Frankie asked me to send you over.”

Platt guesses he gets up pretty quick when he hears that, because Madeline coos, “Aw, look, it’s codependent.”

He flips her off – very subtle, only when he’s safe around the corner and certain neither of them can see him – and follows the trail of noise and discarded toys past the almost blindingly heterosexual ‘live, laugh, love’ decal and into a room that is pink. Just- pink. Too much pink. This is not Platt’s colour.

“Quick, the spy went that way!”

“Get him, he has the diamonds!”

Platt lingers in the doorway, taking in the half-adorable, half-deeply terrifying sight of Franklin sat on the floor, flanked by both Mendoza girls and dwarfed by a massive, also-pink dollhouse. He’s using his character voices, like when he’s DM-ing, and walking this frizzy-haired Barbie along the top floor, trailing after the Spiderman the older Mendoza daughter is playing with. The littler sister is watching both dolls, captivated.

“Of course, you’re good with kids,” Platt says, shaking his head. Franklin visibly perks right up – shouldn’t be possible – when he notices him, which feels nice to see.

“Platt!” Platt gives a little mock salute as Franklin gestures from Mendoza’s girls to him. “Guys, this is our friend Platt.”

The older of the two girls, can’t be more than seven or eight, marches up to Platt and cranes her neck to peer up at him. “I’m Isabella,” she announces. Platt has been told that before, he assumes. Didn’t bother remembering it.

“Aw, man, I don’t care that much,” Platt says. Isabella does not look offended. Mostly because she ignores him as if he didn’t even speak.

“Your name is weird.”

“Thanks,” Platt says, and is spared any further conversation with her when the smaller girl, whose name Platt is fairly sure is either Alexandra or Alicia, tugs on his pants, says gravely, “You’re her,” and hands him a Build A Bear Lion, which he presumably is supposed to pretend is capable of conversing normally with humans and also spidermen.

He sits down heavily next to Franklin, scooting in close so he can mutter in an undertone, “I’m not good with kids.”

Franklin holds up his Barbie, who is currently wearing an extremely sparkly dress that sure as shit isn’t practical for spy-chasing. Franklin, via Barbie, says, “Say it through Lion.”

Platt gives him a hard look.

Franklin’s eyes somehow get even bigger and sparklier. That shouldn’t be allowed. Platt has _rights_.

Platt sighs, lifts his lion, and bops Franklin on the nose with its paw. “I. Hate. This,” he says, punctuating each word with another fluffy tap, and Franklin laughs and so do both Mendoza girls, laughing like plushie violence is the funniest thing in the world.

“I didn’t do that for your amusement,” Platt informs the girls, but gets distracted by Franklin using Barbie to tackle Lion to the ground, and like, Platt is a competitive dude, stuffed animal or not, so he has to make Lion fight back, and one thing leads to another leads to Barbie and Lion dramatically fighting to the death on the roof of the dollhouse while Mendoza’s daughters watch, riveted.

Franklin makes the Barbie stumble and fall against Lion, his knee nudging up against Platt’s. They’re sitting close. “Lion... I’ve always... loved you...”

“What have I done?” Platt makes Lion wail, trying not to laugh. He nudges Franklin back.

“Remember me,” Franklin croaks, then he flops dramatically against Platt, same as Barbie, eyes squeezed shut.

Platt marches Lion across Franklin’s chest and gives his best Luke Skywalker “Nooo,” nudging Franklin’s chin to try and get him to break and laugh, and for a second, that seems more important than anything, getting that smile to brighten Franklin’s whole face, and then the girls burst into applause and cheers, and the second passes.

The tiny, child-sized clapping is broken up by a significantly less tiny slow clap from the doorway.

“Didn’t think you had it in you, Plattso,” Mendoza says, appraising. “Food’s up.”

Platt can’t even bring himself to be mad about the new and terrible attempt at a nickname, he’s that crushingly embarrassed that someone witnessed that. Probably too much to hold out hope that Mendoza just arrived.

“Wasn’t he _great_?” Franklin enthuses, oblivious, springing up from where he was playing dead in Platt’s lap. Platt, excruciatingly aware of how red his face definitely is, waits for the punchline, but nothing comes. “This is the energy you should bring to the campaign, Platt, I’m serious, any DM would just kill for that kind of roleplaying!”

He springs up, towering over Platt, and offers a hand. Platt takes it, after a second, lets Franklin pull him to his feet, and there’s this little off-balance moment where they’re standing in each other’s space and Platt almost panics, but then there’s another tug on his pants, around his knee. Platt looks down just in time to see Alexa – he was close, on the name – reach up and take his other hand. Which-

“Nope,” Platt says, then, when she doesn’t let go, he lifts his arm to try to shake her off, only he ends up lifting her right off the ground and has to scramble to set her down carefully so he doesn’t get in trouble for dropping this tiny human on the hardwood floor. Alexa’s laughing the whole time like it’s just the funniest thing in the world.

“Strong,” she says, swinging their joined hands.

“I’ve eaten steaks that weigh more than you,” Platt tells her, unimpressed, and apparently he is two for two on unintentional comedy, tonight, because both girls start giggling again.

“I want to hold hands too!” Isabella pipes up, and Franklin reaches out for hers with the hand that’s not still holding Platt’s, because his one hand is still holding Platt’s, and Platt is still holding it back, and neither of them has moved to let go. Platt Notices.

“Lead the way, Miss Izzy,” Franklin says, with a funny little bow, and squeezes Platt’s hand just once, like some kind of inside joke, shooting him this quick, _haha kids, right?_ smile before Isabella’s parading them out of the room.

So, like. This is Platt’s life, apparently, meandering down his liney’s hall in a ridiculous chain, and getting sat at a table to eat some vegan lasagne thing off the plastic Frozen plate Isabella insists on him using, and spending the whole meal curling and uncurling the fingers of his right hand where Franklin was holding it. It’s like he can still feel it.

Platt doesn’t… _hate_ it, completely. Like- the Frozen plate, he hates, ‘cause the new Disney characters all look the same and barely look human, but the dinner itself, everyone joking around, laughing at whatever impossibly drawn-out stories Isabella is telling, sort of makes him feel like he’s in a movie, their unremarkable-Thursday dinner the closest thing to a big family holiday that Platt’s ever had. He guesses it must be a pretty common occurrence for them, the way they’re all so comfortable together. Although, even still, he gets the feeling, no real proof to it, that they’re making a bit of an event of dinner all the same, and he’s the only one they’d be doing that for today, and the feeling makes Platt’s stomach do a flip.

Franklin, always polite, offers to help like, fifty times, until Mendoza lets him clear the table. As Franklin’s scooting his seat back to stand, he rests his hand on Platt’s knee to catch his balance, just for the smallest moment, and Platt doesn’t hate that, either.

Platt makes sure he’s the one carrying the armful of tupperwared leftovers when he and Franklin leave. It’s a good call, because it means the girls can’t fling themselves at him for hugs, so Franklin’s the one getting dogpiled by children while Platt just has to deal with Mendoza.

Well. ‘Just’.

“Happy to have you, kiddo,” Mendoza says, clapping Platt on the shoulder before he can escape out the door. “Been nice seeing you settle in. Extra nice playing with a Sinclair instead of against one, for once.”

He sounds friendly, no pretense or bullshit about it – Platt looks for it – which is disconcerting, because Platt mostly thought Mendoza still hated him. Pretty much figured he was only tolerating him for Franklin’s sake.

He must be eying Mendoza pretty warily as he thinks that, because Mendoza laughs, this huge guffaw. “Jeez, your face, you can just say thank you,” he teases, but his eyes are kind, and Platt gets the distinct impression he’s being given an out.

“...Thanks,” Platt mutters, belatedly, then grabs Franklin’s hand, just for long enough to tug him to his feet so they can make a break for it. So he can. Whatever.

“Better than sitting alone in a hotel room?” Franklin asks, once they’re safely into his car, Platt’s seat heater at the highest possible level and all the hot air possible blasting in his direction.

“Only ‘cause you were there,” Platt allows, half because it’s the truth and half because he knows it’ll make Franklin do his big, head-ducking, genuinely happy smile. It makes Platt feel like the fucking _man_ , making Franklin smile like that, which is dumb, ‘cause it’s pretty easy to do, and it’s kind of the least he _can_ do, after tonight, after Franklin going out of his way to come to Platt’s place to get him so he wouldn’t be alone.

Platt doesn’t point out when they go past the turn to his hotel. Franklin doesn’t ask about it, either.

Once they’re in Franklin’s condo, boots kicked off at the door, Franklin hits the lights and turns around precisely in time to catch Platt mid-yawn.

“It’s later than I thought, gosh,” Franklin says, while Platt blinks the sleep out of his eyes. “No one’s used the guest room since you, last time, so it should still be- no?”

Platt shakes his head. “I want to stay up to call my dad,” he explains. “It’s morning there, he’s got meetings then the early game, should just be a couple hours.”

“I’ll wait up with you!” Franklin offers, and it’s probably a dick move to make him stay up, but Platt’s not selfless enough to turn down the company even if Franklin didn’t look, like, genuinely excited by the prospect. “Like a sleepover!”

“Lame,” Platt says, and it is – ‘sleepover’, like they’re kids, like Platt had enough friends for that kind of shit even when he _was_ a kid – but he still finds himself, a few minutes later, changing out of his jeans and into borrowed PJ pants, plus his favourite of the hoodies he’s borrowed the last couple times he slept over. It kind of makes him wonder if he’s, like, outstaying his welcome, if he’s been here enough that he’s got a favourite Franklin hoodie, like maybe Franklin’s just too polite to say anything and he secretly resents Platt too, same as Darling and everyone else on the team. Though-

_Mendoza doesn’t_ , he reminds himself, forcefully. Or his family. He guesses Kulik – Daniil, whatever – probably doesn’t either. And Franklin showed up at his door. Franklin, at least, wants him here.

_He wants you here,_ Platt thinks, stern, and then he takes a deep breath and heads out into the living room.

It’s good, same way the rest of tonight has been. Same way things generally are, around Franklin. Franklin boots up his PS5, and they kill stuff for a while, and once they’re sick of that, Platt switches to cable and finds a channel that’s just starting to air the Grinch, the old-timey 2D one.

“Cool?” he says, and Franklin nods, settling back into the couch, so Platt copies, gets comfy as well. Finds himself watching the snow outside the window just as much as the movie. Watching his reflection, blurred with the lamplight. Watching Franklin’s reflection too, the space between them on the couch.

“Do you miss Dallas?” Reflection-Franklin asks, eventually, and Platt turns to look at the real thing.

Platt shrugs. It’s quiet, and he’s finally warm for real, between Franklin’s hoodie and the throw blanket he wrapped around himself a while back, and that’s most likely why he offers up, “My dad, I guess. Maybe the weather. You?”

“The weather in Ottawa isn’t that much better than here,” Franklin says. He’s got his legs resting on the little ottoman thing, all sprawled out, maybe more relaxed than Platt’s seen him. It’s cute.

“I obviously meant do you miss your hometown, like, in general,” Platt needles, but gently. His voice usually comes out pretty gentle, around Franklin, and only partly on purpose. “Do you?”

“Nope,” Franklin says, brisk, then, “It’s nice that you and your dad are so close.”

“It’s just the two of us, pretty much, so,” Platt says by way of explanation. He wonders belatedly if he should’ve asked more, kept prodding about Franklin’s hometown and why he apparently hates it, but Franklin’s already moving on. Ignoring the subject, on purpose or not, Platt can’t tell.

“What’s he like?”

“One of the documentaries is probably on YouTube-” Platt starts to say, automatic, because it’s the kind of question he’s been getting asked by fans and reporters and teammates basically since he could talk.

“As a parent, I mean, not- you know, as _the_ Ryan Sinclair,” Franklin interjects, and Platt glances at him, a little wary, but he looks sincere as he ever does, genuinely interested, and Platt finds himself talking more without even deciding to.

“He’s the best,” he says. “Like- every Christmas when I was little and he was still playing, we’d go to the rink and have the whole thing to ourselves, and then we’d go home and order a shit-ton of junk food and literally just sit there and switch between hockey and football on TV all day, it was the best.”

That last part comes out forceful, almost defiant, even though Platt doesn’t _really_ think Franklin’s the type who would make fun of him or pity him for not having the traditional family holidays growing up. Even if he was, though, fuck that, Platt wouldn’t trade his dad for anything. The man’s not just in the GOAT conversation as a player, right, he’s a good person too, the kind of person who raised a kid mostly by himself even as a young and single superstar athlete and only forgot toddler Platt with a Zamboni driver the one time. The kind of person who, the first and only time Platt had a panic attack in front of him, almost dropped everything and retired right then and there to be around more, even though he loved – loves – hockey more than anything. Almost ruined his whole life, just ‘cause he thought Platt needed him to, just like that.

It’s like- he’s better than having a parent-y kind of parent. Basically like Platt got raised by an awesome older brother, but better than that too, because they’ve got the same interest and his dad doesn’t make fun of Platt for being short or ginger or whatever other shit actual brothers do.

He has to be awesome, for Platt to forgive him for having such impossible shoes to fill.

Platt makes a face. “Ugh,” he says.

Franklin’s lips are pressed together like he’s trying not to smile. “What ‘ugh’?”

“Like,” Platt gestures vaguely. “That was soft, ugh, ew, etcetera.”

“Oh no, Platt Sinclair expressed an affectionate feeling for his family, sound the alarms,” Franklin says, dry, and the shock of hearing that from him is enough that Platt laughs out loud, stunned.

“Holy shit.”

Franklin claps a hand over his mouth and looks mortified, the way he has every time Platt’s seen him say something less than wholly perfect. “I’m so sorry, that was- I don’t know why I-”

Platt cuts him off, “Don’t apologize, that was the single mildest attempt at sarcasm in the entire history of the planet, you’re allowed.”

“We were just talking, though, I don’t want us to stop being friends because you think I’m mean,” Franklin says, still all fretful, like, genuinely worried, which is so deeply ridiculous that Platt has to laugh again. As if anyone ever hasn’t loved him.

“Franklin, I would pay literal human money to hear you say something mean,” he says. Franklin looks only very slightly less panicky. Platt tilts his head, staring at him curiously, and then, as the idea dawns on him, says, “Wait. You totally should.”

Franklin’s shaking his head, firm as he ever gets, before Platt’s even done talking. “I’m not going to do that, thank you.”

“One mean thing,” Platt wheedles, dislodging his blanket cape and knee-walking across the cushion between them so he can hook his chin on Franklin’s shoulder and shake his arm, doing his best attempt at Franklin-level puppy eyes. “ _One_ mean thing and I won’t complain about you trying to murder Bruce Wayne the whole next entire session, I promise.”

“I try to murder everyone equally, it’s-” Franklin starts then stops, looking at Platt like he’s not sure whether to be not sure of him. Platt tries to look as honest as he can. Not like there’s much room for lying, tonight, the two of them sitting here lit up by the faintest glow through the window, squares of light like tiles from the apartments across the way.

Franklin hesitates. Platt finds himself holding his breath.

Finally, Franklin says, all tentative, and clearly with a lot of effort, “I... I’m not overly fond of our alternate jerseys this year.”

“Neither is anyone with eyes,” Platt says. “Also, not even mean, try again.” He pokes at Franklin’s side. “C’mon, c’mon-”

Franklin squirms, ticklish. Platt knew he was ticklish. “Well... I guess... Coach Wahlstrom talks about Sweden _constantly,_ and It’s a bit much.” He chews his lip, obviously thinking. Adds, without Platt having to prompt this time, “The Mendozas’ ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ wall decal is so tacky I have to assume it’s there ironically...…Oh, and it’s very irritating that the refs let opposing players park in my crease and shove me, like, I’m big, but it’s still goaltender interference, call the rulebook.” He makes a face, but doesn’t stop, obviously on a roll. “Also, um, you keep expecting me to care that your dad is Ryan Sinclair, but I grew up watching him score on all my favourite goalies and also singlehandedly beat Canada every Olympics? I kind of deeply hated him until I met you.”

Platt blinks.

Franklin coughs. Winds his hands together in his lap. “I’m done now.”

“...Holy shit,” Platt says, and slowly, real slowly, lets himself smile. That was the _best_. “Holy fucking shit, he’s a real boy!” he crows, shaking Franklin all over again, thrilled, and Franklin buries his face in his hands, but he’s laughing like he can’t help it.

“Platt!”

“No, Frankie, listen, but for real? Lowkey? That was kind of hot.” And that does it; gets Franklin laughing out loud too, face lighting up all reluctantly even as he gives a little eye roll.

“ _Don’t_ tell anyone I was mean, please.”

Platt waggles his eyebrows. “Or you’ll beat me up?”

Franklin looks alarmed. “What? No, I’d never, ever-” Platt watches the realization dawn across his face. “Ah, I see.”

“See, I’m mean too,” Platt says, still incredibly pleased with himself for getting Franklin to say that much stuff. _Stuff he doesn’t normally say to anyone_ , some gross, possessive part of his brain thinks, smug.

“You’re also _small_ ,” Franklin points out, and Platt barely gets a chance to take in the glint in his eyes before he’s being tackled into the couch cushions by six feet and five inches of vengeful goalie.

“Wha- hey!”

The element of surprise is the only reason Platt gets pinned, he decides, because he knows for a fact he’s stronger than Franklin, has seen proof of that in the gym, but he’s laughing too hard at the shock of Franklin apparently being the type for horseplay to shove him off.

“Fucking- uncle,” Platt manages to gasp out through laughter, flat on his back with Franklin trapping his wrists. “Uncle, okay, you win, you’re not allowed to be mean anymore, go back to being a flawless angel, shit.”

“I’m kind of enjoying it,” Franklin says, matter of fact, though his cheeks go a little pink at the ‘flawless angel’ thing, and it’s honestly even becoming, not at all like the lobster-esque disaster that happens on Platt’s face when he blushes. “I may embark upon a remorseless life of crime.”

“You’re so fucking weird,” Platt says, so audibly fond even to himself that he remembers to be embarrassed again. “You’re so-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and Franklin looks down at him and Platt looks up and that in itself isn’t unusual because he spends his life craning his neck to look at half his teammates, but for some reason, the way they’re still tangled together, this stupid, little kid kind of play fighting, or maybe just the whole night, everything Franklin’s done and shown, Platt looks up at Franklin and forgets to breathe for one second, then two, then three, before he shakes himself out of it

“Now that I know you’re mean and you know I actually like my dad, I guess we have to stay friends basically no matter what,” is what he finds himself saying, casual as can be. “It’s basically a catch-22.”

He’d swear up and down that Franklin’s eyes actually literally light up, he looks that happy when Platt says that. Almost surprised, too, which is ridiculous, really, because hello, it’s Franklin, he’s got a team’s worth of friends and an entire city who’d willingly die for him. He has to know that. Anyone can see it. “I don’t know that that’s what a catch-22 is.”

“We’ll ask Pookie, he’ll have fun mansplaining it,” Platt says, then, “Ha, I totally saw you laugh at that, you _are_ mean,” and Franklin’s wrestling him down all over again, and by the time they finally call a truce and Franklin gets up to make hot cocoa, the Grinch’s heart is growing three sizes and Platt’s got to find something new for them to watch. And-

And it’s later still, way later, long past another movie and the condo going dark save for the TV and Franklin dozing off right there next to Platt on the couch, that Platt finds himself looking again. Just looking at Franklin, at the way his hair is smushed up against the couch cushion, all loose black curls that look like they’d be soft to the touch; at the way Franklin’s eyelashes are so long and dark that it almost looks like makeup, now his eyes are shut. He’s starting to get a bit of a dark shadow on his cheeks like he hasn’t bothered shaving in the couple of days they’ve had off from practice, and his t-shirt is all rucked up over his stomach, half-obscuring the screen print of some geeky inside joke that Platt definitely doesn’t get. And it’s like-

Platt doesn’t know if it’s the stubble or the sleeping or the lingering enjoyment of what passes for mean from Franklin, but sitting there, watching Franklin’s chest rise and fall in his sleep, he has this bizarrely still, world-goes-silent moment of realizing that, holy shit, Franklin’s, like, a person. Which sounds just unbearably fucking stupid, Platt is aware, but it’s just- he knew Franklin was real, obviously, but he’s been- he _is_ almost too perfect, like, personality and looks and everything, like he’s a fairytale or an adorable animated sidekick or something, so that Platt was waiting and waiting and holding his breath for something to shatter that. And now he feels like he can finally exhale, because Franklin said what apparently counts to him as mean, he showed Platt that hidden piece of him, and Platt still doesn’t really know anything about Franklin’s life or his family or who he is outside of two different games, but tonight he’s realizing that Franklin’s also just, like, a guy, and it’s kind of blowing his mind. Franklin complains about things and he has to put effort into being nice sometimes and he snores a little when he sleeps, and he’s all those things and still decided to be Platt’s friend and go out of his way to drag him out so he wouldn’t be alone on a holiday. Still thinks Platt’s the kind of person worth being around.

Platt nestles a little closer into his borrowed hoodie. It smells like Franklin’s bodywash. Feels big and safe and soft. Platt feels-

It’s going to suck, leaving Franklin if the plan works.

When the plan works.

Platt’s phone lights up, over on the coffee table, and he grabs it quick, before it has a chance to start buzzing and maybe wake Franklin.

“Hey, seventy-two,” Platt says, quiet. “Game’s done?”

“Nah, I snuck away, no one’s going to fire me,” his dad says. “Hey, man, merry Christmas!”

Platt sits back against the couch. Leans his arm against Franklin’s, just a little, enough to feel the warmth. Finds himself smiling, only ‘cause no one’s there to see. “Yeah,” he allows. Just this once, ‘cause it’s Christmas. “I guess so, yeah.”


	6. Chapter 6

“You fucking _what_?” Platt demands, first day back at practice and already entirely Done.

“What is it with you and bathrooms?” Darling demands right back, and it’s not, like, _unfair_ , considering they’re currently side by side and definitely naked in the showers post-skate. It’s also perfectly fair, though, because Platt’s entire plan to take credit via goals for facilitating Darling’s romantic bliss via urgency and elaborate mind games is being derailed before his very eyes.

Platt drags a hand down his face. Gets soap in his eyes, via the whole hand-dragging-thing, but powers through. “You were literally with Moore for the holidays, how did you not-”

“I don’t _know_ , okay?” Darling says, evidently flustered enough to dispense with pretending like the Moore feelings aren’t a thing as he grabs a towel and stomps back into the room so that Platt has to grab his own towel and follow, suds and all. “Both our entire families were there and I knew that if I made a move and fucked up it would ruin Christmas, and it’s not like things have exactly been normal between us anyways, and then Joe kept on asking if I was seeing anyone only then when I asked if _he’s_ seeing anyone he got all weird and uptight and it was like- did he _want_ me to be seeing someone?”

“He’s absolutely not the uptight one in that relationship,” Platt says, and realizes too late that he’s not supposed to know anything about Joey Moore, but luckily Darling’s too irritable to notice.

“I don’t remember asking your opinion, Sinclair, but thanks so much,” Darling snaps, and storms away all dramatically, which is still his favourite hobby, which is maybe contributing to why he’s still single and Platt’s plan is, evidently, _still_ unsuccessful.

Platt gets dressed and wanders over to Franklin, who’s tugging on his pants, still sans-shirt. Platt hands it to him so he’ll cover up, which is mostly self-preservation for Platt, because it’s frankly pretty unfair that Franklin’s body is so nice too. People should have to choose between looks and talent and personality. Even goalies.

“Our urgency plan failed,” Platt informs him.

“It would appear so.”

Platt leans against Franklin’s stall, narrows his eyes at Darling from across the room. “Desperate measures time.”

“I find myself ever so slightly concerned about the way you said that,” Franklin says, smoothing down his hair where it’s been tousled from putting his shirt on. Platt helps, taking advantage of being taller for once.

“No felonies, don’t worry,” he says, and then, after giving Franklin the thumbs up for his hair, switches from looking down to peering up at Franklin as he stands.

“Fun fact, in Canada they’re actually called indictable offenses, not felonies!” Franklin supplies, ever helpful.

“Ugh, how do you even make trivia adorable?” Platt says, despairing. “Stop it, play fair.”

Franklin squirms at the compliment, all bashful, but he smiles too, so Platt knows it was the good kind of bashful. Platt nudges their hands together as they walk out together, and Franklin nudges him back.

“The new plan?” Franklin prompts, once they’re out to the parking lot, and Platt makes a face.

He wasn’t lying about the no felonies thing. Desperate measures are _worse_.

“Urgency failed ‘cause they’re cowards,” Platt says, “and holiday romance failed ‘cause they have too much history, which means we need to play even dirtier. We need to make them _nostalgic_.” He tugs at the handle of the passenger door, now they’re at Franklin’s car, but Franklin doesn’t go for his key to unlock it, just looks like he’s considering what Platt’s saying.

“That doesn’t sound overly nefarious,” he says, and Platt hears the unsaid _which is extremely suspicious_.

“That’s only because they’re both freaks who enjoy thinking about their childhoods,” Platt counters, and Franklin nods, conceding the point, even though his childhood was probably just even more concentrated adorableness. Still doesn’t open the door, though.

Platt jumps from foot to foot, trying to conserve body heat. “Listen,” he says, “listen, we remind them of all the good times they had together, make them feel good and comfy about their relationship, and then they realize how much they don’t want to lose it.”

“I like this incarnation of the plan,” Franklin decides, all pleased. He doesn’t even look _cold_. Platt takes matters into his own hands, comes around the car’s hood and fishes in Franklin’s jacket pockets for the keys.

“Malcolm deserves to – oh, left pocket, not- yep, there – to feel good about himself, he’s a really good friend!”

“He’s a rigid snob,” Platt says, because that’s just facts, really. He holds up the keys and clicks the unlock button, triumphant. “Which is why you’re taking him, and I’m handling Moore.”

Franklin catches the keys, beams at him and, later that week, so enthusiastically makes the introduction between Platt and Moore that Platt kind of suspects that he’s been hoping for this outcome all along. Like attempting to force his current teammates to befriend Platt isn’t enough, he’s also targeting ex-Flames.

“Your dad is so great, man,” Joey – Platt makes it two seconds into their first ever video call before it’s impossible to think of him as Moore, he’s the kind of guy who _feels_ like a Joey, like, fundamentally, for all the good and bad that entails – says. “I mean, genius level hockey IQ, obviously, but he’s also really approachable and _super_ willing to help, even though I’m not technically a prospect anymore so it’s not even his job.”

“Yeah, he does that,” Platt says. He checks the time, and then checks it again when Joey’s finished his gushing. Three straight minutes of Ryan Sinclair fanboying. Honestly a little less than average.

“But how about you!” Joey says, and he even has the grace to look apologetic. “Hey, I’m sorry, you reached out and I didn’t even ask why, that’s my bad, what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on!” Platt says, fast, then, “Are you and Darling in a fight?”

Real subtle, Sinclair. Maybe he should’ve just given Franklin both parts.

“What?” Joey looks lost. “No, why? Did he say-”

“No,” Platt practically trips over himself to reply, because the last thing he needs is to make this worse. “No, no, it’s-” He stops his mouth, miracle of miracles, before he can say _I just need to know what went down between you two because Darling’s completely in love with you and I need you guys to bang so he’ll start helping me score goals, please, person I’ve never actually met_. “He’s been _such_ a bitch at D&D lately, and you’re like, the person he cares about more than anything, so I was wondering if he told you why, that’s all.”

Joey’s smiling again, smaller than before, but enough that Platt is pretty sure his last-second lie salvaged things. “They roped you into that too, huh?”

“ _Don’t_ tell people,” Platt orders, and Joey laughs, waving him off.

“Ah, who gives a shit what people think,” he says, rearranging the camera a little. This is not a flattering angle for him. Platt kind of expected Darling’s taste in guys to be more… Darling-y. “It’s fun, right?”

“They only invited me ‘cause you left,” Platt says. It’s the truth and he knows it, even if the others insist on acting like it’s ‘cause they like him or something.

“I miss it, believe it or not,” Joey says, and looks almost contemplative. “I never really had, like, a _thing_ outside of hockey, y’know?”

“I know,” Platt says. He does. There’s no such thing as being well-adjusted if you want to make it pro. Less than no such thing for him, because he never did prom or birthday parties or clubs or anything that might’ve distracted him from being as good as he had to be. Not like anyone was particularly jazzed about the idea of being his friend anyways, even before the Incident, when he was the weird intense kid who missed half the year to travel for his tournaments or to hit the road with the Stars when none of his dad’s teammates’ partners were available to babysit. No room for having a thing just his. Nothing even close, ‘til now.

 _Not_ that dungeons and dragons is his _thing._ God fucking forbid. Embarrassing even to think it.

“Franklin’s pretty good at telling the story, though,” he finds himself saying, in spite of himself.

“Yeah, he is, what a legend,” Joey agrees, easy.

“He’s pretty good at everything, I guess,” Platt adds as an afterthought, and the conversation flows easier from there, because they’ve got Franklin in common, and Platt doesn’t mind talking about him at length.

January rolls on, game nights and Game Nights interspersed. One type generally goes better than the other. Platt rolls more dice than he has in his life. Finally figures out how to crank up the thermostat in his hotel room, which hasn’t been _as_ intolerable as before recently, since Mendoza’s been getting in the habit of bringing Platt leftovers from whatever he or Madeline made for dinner, and the room’s a lot less depressing when you’ve got food that didn’t come in a Styrofoam takeout container.

“You don’t have to keep making me food,” he says anyways, one morning at the practice rink when he’s giving Mendoza back all his tupperwares from the last week.

“It’s nothing,” Mendoza waves him off. “Everyone’s gotta eat.”

Which- duh, but typically Platt’s eating doesn’t involve people, like. Making stuff for him.

He doesn’t hate it, he guesses, and it would be rude to turn down their cooking, he reasons, so he doesn’t push the subject, just heads over to the gym to work on his off-ice stuff with his unofficial gym group of CJ and Daniil, both of whom seem to tolerate him and even sometimes maybe not mind having him around.

“Think I’m in the lineup next game, boys?” Daniil says, coming off his second healthy scratch in a row. He says it like a joke, but it just comes out sad.

Platt looks at CJ, who raises his eyebrows back, like _you can take this one._

“I got scratched a bunch in Dallas,” Platt says, awkward. He means it to be, like. Empathetic. Has a nagging suspicion that it comes out more ‘irrelevant blurt’, but Daniil doesn’t seem offended.

“Yeah, but you’re you,” he says, resigned, “Realistically, I’m lucky if I get a two-way deal, next contract.”

Platt frowns. “There’s more upsets in hockey than any other sport,” he says. “You know how many players there are worse than you on bigger contracts? A lot.”

CJ snorts at that admittedly half-assed attempt at encouragement, and Platt does not glare at him, but only because he’s huge and terrifying and currently lifting twice Platt’s bodyweight.

“Thanks, buddy,” Daniil says, touched, and Platt mutters something that technically counts as a response, switches to watching Franklin, who’s casually chatting to Toivonen while doing a full split. Better to look at by _far_.

The Flames’ social media crew catches Platt as he and the others file out of the gym, volun-telling them to pose for pictures for mental health month on the team socials. Platt stares, skeptical, as they’re handed little signs that say stuff like _you are not alone_ and _ask for help_ and all the usual slogans that teams say but that aren’t realistic if you don’t want to get cut and trashed in the press and ruin your entire family legacy more than you have already.

Platt holds his sign and scowls. Scowls until Franklin catches his eyes over the social media manager’s head and pokes his tongue out at him and of course, of course, the split second where Platt’s smiling at him is the second they catch on camera.

“It’s not like they mean any of it,” he says, when Franklin brings it up later, the two of them sprawled out on his couch, where they end up most days.

“I think they do,” Franklin says. “Our friends, at least.” Not an argument, really, just a counterpoint, like it’s that easy, show up someplace and they just want to help you. It would be real easy to believe him. Scary easy.

 _Your friends_ , Platt can’t bring himself to correct.

They win their next game. Lose both halves of a back-to-back.

“What was Darling like when you guys were younger?” Platt asks Joey, next time they call. “Still all stuffy, or-”

“Oh, jeez,” Joey sighs, all wistful – it’s _working_ – and it turns into a laugh that sends him doubling over almost out of the frame. “Freshman year, he had this weird phase where he’d exclusively wear flared jeans.”

Platt takes a note of _that_ cursed little tidbit for future mocking, and mostly just tunes out the rest of the reminiscing, offering the occasional nod or hum to pretend like he’s listening, since he doesn’t actually give a shit whether Darling’s pretentiousness is inherent or something he grew with time. Joey seems to enjoy telling the stories anyhow, talking and talking the way he tends to do.

“-oh man, and the time a couple years back when Franklin agreed to be DD-”

Platt snaps back to attention, interest piqued. “Was he the same as he is now? Franklin, I mean?” Platt saw him at the draft, presumably. Doesn’t remember him, or anything, given that he barely breathed the whole week leading up to the event, and it’s not like Franklin’s super forthcoming with stories about his past.

Joey looks bemused, but he gives Platt an answer. “Just about, yeah,” he says, then laughs again. “Poor guy, all of eighteen years old, and he not only drove us home but got us upstairs and settled in and all. He left us _breakfast_.”

Of course he did. Platt finds himself smiling, has to chew his lip to try and hide it. Of course, Franklin was taking care of his way older teammates from the second he got here.

“I want more Franklin stories,” Platt says, greedy. It’s- like, whatever, it’s technically still within the bounds of the plan. All of Joey’s stories involve Darling, anyhow, it still counts as nostalgia-building. Even if it didn’t, Platt _likes_ it, learning about Franklin. He wonders what it would’ve been like if they’d been on the same team from the beginning. They still would’ve been the youngest ones on the team – hell, they still are now, one and two – but it would’ve been nice, Platt thinks, to have a friendly face, Franklin there to squeeze his hand when the weight of everyone’s expectations and comparisons got to be too much.

Platt still doesn’t hold much by nostalgia. Obviously. Next road trip, though, he waits ‘til Darling’s getting settled in bed, then sends the flared jeans photo he found, solely for the pleasure of watching Darling lose his shit – “They were _vintage_!” – and then the decided un-pleasure of having to wrestle Darling for his phone so Darling won’t send the photo of Platt at fourteen with a severe sunburn and a mullet to the party groupchat.

He shows them all next time they play D&D. Mendoza almost pees himself laughing.

“You looked so sweet!” Franklin says, so sincere that Platt may as well be sunburnt again, he goes so red, and the sharing of terrible photos stretches out so it takes them forever to start playing, and then by the time they finish infiltrating the masquerade ball thrown by Nem’s mysterious old teacher and rescuing Ragnor from his unplanned solo mission to find the wine cellar that turned into all of them falling through a portal, it’s almost one in the morning and Platt has to talk himself down from a panic attack in Franklin’s guest room, _oh my god, what did you do, what the fuck are your priorities, think about what people would say, you’re never going to get good like this._

They win their game the next day anyways.

“Holy shit, and that second goal, the _hands_ -”

“I’ve been practicing,” Platt says, allowing himself to feel proud, since his dad’s the only one who’ll hear. He lays back on his bed, grinning into his phone. “Franklin always stops those but he’s better than Babikov and I saw the space short side and I was like, fuck it, and then it worked.” He waits for more eagerness from his dad, but the line’s quiet. “Hello?”

“Yeah,” his dad says, “Yeah, sorry. I’m not used to hearing you sound this happy.” He sounds like he’s smiling.

“Gross, seventy-two,” Platt says.

“You are, right?”

Platt makes gagging noises. His dad’s got better things to do than worry over him. Speaking of- “Order food before mom gets there,” Platt reminds him.

“Oh, shit.”

Platt listens to his dad scrambling around and grins. Of course he forgot.

Things are going well, generally – relatively, considering Platt’s still in both Alberta and last place in the league – so Platt decides to take a swing with the Darling and Joey plan, finally spring the nostalgia trap.

“If I ask you something,” he says, next time he calls up Joey, “you got to swear to keep it between us, okay?”

He’s not expecting it when Joey doesn’t look intrigued or suspicious or even all that curious, just grins, almost- knowingly? “Not going to lie, I was kind of waiting for you to bring it up.”

“What?” Platt says, ‘cause sure, he hasn’t exactly been subtle about pushing the Darling agenda, but he didn’t think he was _that_ obvious. Unless Franklin said something?

“Yeah, I mean, you started calling me and, y’know, from what people say I didn’t think you’d be the type to reach out just because,” Joey explains, then, oblivious to the way Platt can’t manage to hide a flinch at the mention of _what people say_ , he says, kind, “so it made sense when I figured out you were working up to the Franklin thing. I think you should go for it, dude!”

Which-

“What?” Platt asks again, utterly confused. “No, there’s not- it’s not like- why would you think it’s like that?” Then, without waiting for a response, maybe especially so he won’t have to hear a response, “That’s not even- I wanted to ask why the fuck you haven’t made out with Pookie yet.”

Joey visibly blanches. Nice work, Sinclair.

“I mean, ‘cause- you know, he and I are such great pals and roomies,” Platt lies, just, blatantly, scrambling to smooth things over. Not that elegantly either, still rattled by whatever Joey thought he was going to say about Franklin. “And like, the just between us thing applies here, but I feel like he definitely kind of has a thing for you, and like, you obviously care about him too, so why not-”

“He doesn’t,” Joey cuts him off. “Sweets doesn’t have a thing for me.”

Platt wishes it was possible to throttle someone through Facetime. “Uh, I know you’ve known him longer than I have, but I think you’re missing some important details here-”

“Platt,” Joey cuts in again, and he doesn’t sound irritated like Darling would by now, just resigned. “I kissed him the night I found out I got traded.”

“...What.” Platt says.

_What._

When he suspected that something went down between Darling and Joey, he didn’t think- kissing is supposed to be the _end_ of his plan, not the _beginning_. This whole thing hinges on the fact that they haven’t talked about their feelings, why-

“So why aren’t you-”

“I was just...” Joey shakes his head, looks like he’s talking half to himself, like maybe he and himself have had this conversation a bunch of times before. “I was freaking out, after the news, and I thought that if I was leaving, I might as well try, so I told him that, and I kissed him, and- I _thought_ it was good, but then I flew out and he was all weird and stiff and he just- he never brought it up again, so I followed his lead.”

Platt takes a deep breath. Does not immediately explode, which he thinks is a very big thing, knowing his temper. “You,” he says, slowly, “told him that you might as well kiss. Because you were leaving forever. Then kissed him.”

“Yeah,” Joey says.

“And then,” Platt says, “once you said that you might as well kiss because you were leaving forever, no big deal, he just. Didn’t talk about it.”

“…Yeah?” Joey says.

Platt closes his eyes. “You’re both so dumb. I’m going to kill him.”

Most of Platt’s problems have appeared ‘cause he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He can’t fucking fathom it being the opposite, Darling and Joey both hurting themselves and each other because neither one will just fucking _speak_. All this time, Darling’s been so full of it, acting all mature and snide and _oh, woe is me_ , and the dumbfuck caused his own panic-ghosting by thinking his best friend only kissed him because he was leaving. Which Joey apparently didn’t see any harm in accidentally implying, because apparently college hasn’t taught either of them communication skills worth shit.

“Would probably be a bummer for the team if you did that,” Joey says, and he still sounds sad, but like he’s trying real hard to power through it. Singleminded and determined, all the scouting reports say it about him. A real hard worker. He shrugs, now, not quite looking at his camera. “I kind of needed him more than he needed me, I guess. Pushed things too far. At least I know, now.”

It’s not _fair_ , Platt wants to whine, and comes pretty damn close. “But you like him,” he says, helpless. “You’re _good_.”

It doesn’t sit right even after they hang up, maybe partially because Platt’s still contemplating what the hell Joey thought he was going to say about Franklin, partly because it throws a wrench into the plan, but mostly because it’s not supposed to be like this. Like, Platt doesn’t know Joey Moore all that much, but he knows enough to know that people love him, so he’s _good_ , and sure, he’s no Franklin, but he’s the kind of guy who’s good at being a friend and a teammate, who’ll pick up the phone and talk to the guy who got him traded from all his buddies. He deserves to be with the person he loves.

Even Darling, as generally insufferable of a person and roommate as he is, isn’t the _absolute_ worst, sometimes. Occasionally. And even if he _was_ , he cares about Joey more than anything, even thinking there’s no hope in it for himself. He deserves this, too. And maybe that’s it, what’s bothering Platt. People who deserve to be happy should be happy. That’s how it’s supposed to work, when you deserve good things.

Fucking nostalgia. Fucking _plans_.

\---

The Atlantic division road trip is a long one, even before the Ottawa game. They go down hard, Franklin making more than forty saves and still allowing five, and Platt looks for him after the game – Platt’s usually looking for him – to say something comforting, but Franklin’s not in the room.

“Franklin?” he asks Mendoza, who gestures for the door.

“Hometown, you know how it is.”

Which- no, not really, Platt’s never played anywhere _but_ his hometown ‘til this season. He knows in theory, he guesses. Still dodges Mendoza’s attempted noogie and makes his way out of the room, wandering the halls of the visitor’s part of the rink.

The arena’s not bad to navigate, most of them at least a little similar when you’ve spent enough time in them as Platt has. He hears Franklin before he sees him, his familiar giggly laugh from around a corner. When Platt peeks, he sees Franklin alongside an older man with his same curls and a woman with a Flames-coloured scarf on her head – a level of enthusiasm both admirable and deeply cheesy. As one, they tug him into this huge embrace. Franklin grins at the others present, two younger kids, over his parents’ heads.

Platt would know they were a family even if he didn’t recognize them from the one photo at Franklin’s place: they’re all tall, slim enough that Franklin looks pretty brawny in comparison, which Platt is not even remotely emotionally ready to dwell on right now. The whole family is real smiley too, like they’re genuinely happy to be around each other. Platt watches Franklin extract himself from his parents then bend to hug the kid with glasses – his brother presumably – before straightening up and scooping up the younger girl for a hug while she laughs, talking all the while. His mom wipes some tears from her eyes, still smiling. She looks like she _loves_ him, a lot, like moms in movies love their kids.

Platt ducks back around the corner, fast, so none of the Nahmouds will see him. He feels-

He doesn’t know. Franklin doesn’t talk about home, not ever, really, and Platt hasn’t asked, figured maybe Franklin had a shitty family or something, but he clearly doesn’t, and now Platt’s wondering if the not talking about home was more Franklin thinking it was something Platt wouldn’t care to hear, same as the way he was scared to be anything but excessively nice. And Platt’s shitty in a lot of ways, whatever, but the idea of being a shitty friend to Franklin feels worse than all the rest combined.

He feels lonely the whole bus ride back to the hotel, even though the guys hang around, even though Daniil and Mendoza are being loudmouths like usual. Platt guesses he’s gotten used to Franklin sitting with him.

He feels-

“Plattman’s being a bummer,” Mendoza hangs over his seat, fucks up Platt’s hair, and Platt shoves at him half-heartedly.

“I’m _fine_ , ‘Plattman’, what the fuck even is that,” he gripes, and lets himself get roped into the ongoing debate about whether Platt is an easy or hard name to nickname, even laughs a couple times, but can’t manage to shut off his brain all the while.

He feels like-

He doesn’t _know_.

Platt trails Darling up to their room, irrationally annoyed with Franklin’s family for hogging his attention the one night a season their son is in town. Rationally annoyed with himself for being so irrational. Another point in the shitty friend column.

When Platt finishes showering and brushing his teeth – they’ve been switching who gets to go first these last few road games, and neither of them has murdered each other as of yet – Darling is stretched out on his bed, headphones on as he talks to his phone. The one side of the conversation Platt can hear plus the look on Darling’s face are enough that he knows Moore is on the other end, so Platt stays deliberately out of the way of the camera. Last thing he needs is Moore saying hi to him and revealing the whole plan to Darling before it comes to fruition.

Platt sits on his own bed, tugs the blankets up to drape around his shoulders, and scrolls through his phone, mostly tuning out Darling’s low conversation. His dad sent him a clip of one of Platt’s points from tonight’s game – got the A1, missed the open net later in the same game, call it a wash – with a bunch of exclamation marks and _WHAT A FUCKIN PLAY!!!_ Platt supposes his dad’s hanging out with his mom, because she also texted, _Good game, pumpkin_ , which she only does if he makes her. It’s her usual half-assed effort to pretend to give a shit about her kid, now that her and his dad are re-together again.

Platt’s mildly surprised by the fact that she’s still leading his dad on – it’s been since November and they haven’t re-broken up yet – but he’s not holding his breath. Between him and his dad, one of them’s still got to be realistic about her sticking around. Usually him.

The team groupchat and the party groupchat are both full of terrible, unfunny memes. Most of them, across both chats, are from Mendoza. Nothing from Franklin, not even the heart reacts he always sends every message so people feel acknowledged.

“Night, Joe,” Darling says, and his voice is soft enough, opposite enough from his Platt voice, that Platt glances over at him. He watches Darling hang up, and then watches him flop down onto his bed with, just, _the_ most dramatic sigh, dragging his hands down his face. Platt would break out if he did that.

Platt flings a pillow across the space between their beds. It beans Darling directly in the head.

“ _Ow_ ,” he says, but he doesn’t move except to fling the pillow haphazardly back in Platt’s direction. It doesn’t even close the gap, just hits the side of Platt’s bed and tumbles to the floor.

“You should just tell him,” Platt says. Not his best effort, plan-wise. Mostly just a half-hearted attempt to salvage at least _something_ of tonight. Can’t get stuck in his own head if he’s stuck in the plan instead.

Darling shakes his head, shutting his eyes. “I can’t do that to him.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Platt pushes. Doesn’t even make a joke of it, and maybe Darling can tell, because when he looks at Platt, there’s none of his standard bravado. He just looks sad.

“My best friend hates me and I lose him forever,” he says, plainly, and Platt frowns. No one hates Darling. Platt has actively tried looking for mean articles and tweets about him. There aren’t many.

“Not like you have him, currently,” he points out. It’s not meant to sound as mean as it does. He’s pretty bad at that.

“And what the fuck do you have?” Darling retorts. It sounds automatic more than it sounds like there’s any real malice behind it. That’s how Platt knows Darling’s feeling stuff tonight too, because making Platt feel like shit is basically his favourite hobby. Not the kind of thing he passes up an opportunity for.

“Fuck off, Darling,” Platt says. Familiar ground for the both of them, and Darling sounds mostly tired, but maybe grateful, too, when he replies.

“Ditto, Sinclair.”

Neither of them says anything else, and the last word fizzles out between them.

Platt wonders, unbidden, what Franklin’s doing with his family.

Eventually, Darling sits up and shuts the light off. Platt listens to the sheets rustle as he lays back down, and then it’s quiet again. Not sleeping quiet. Thinking quiet.

 _What the fuck do you have_ , Platt thinks.

He doesn’t know. Guesses that’s a pretty bad omen, insofar as him having anything. Anyone.

Platt’s been talking a lot more, recently, to teammates and stuff. Listening, too. He’s pretty sure he’d have listened, if Franklin had wanted to talk to him about his family. Or about his other friends. Or- most things. Anything. That’s, like- fuck, that’s the absolute least Franklin deserves, is a friend who he feels okay talking to about things, and Platt kind of thought maybe he was that for him, he wants to be that for him. He’s not the kind of person people confide stuff in, but- he could try, for Franklin. Franklin deserves that. He deserves everything.

Something inside Platt aches. Has maybe been aching for a while. It’s that feeling again, the one he can’t put a name to, which is just- it’s so stupid that he’s hurting without knowing why, stupid that he’s even thinking of Franklin right now, _what the fuck do you have,_ because he doesn’t want to _have_ anything to do with this team or this city. That’s the whole point of his plan. He doesn’t have Franklin, doesn’t know what having Franklin would even involve and couldn’t deserve to have him in a million years even if he did, so-

So it doesn’t even matter. So it’s stupid. Just stupid.

It’s not like that, he told Joey.

Platt lies there, awake and stupid and feeling, for a long while, anyhow.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mildly spoilery content warning in this chapter's end notes

“ _Fuck_ ,” Platt says, as his stupidly tiny little paintbrush smudges again and he gets paint on his finger, _again_. “This is ridiculous, there has to be some way to pay someone to do this for you.”

It’s at least his third identical outburst in the hour and a half they’ve been at the whole arts and crafts thing, so he can’t entirely blame Franklin for looking less than concerned as he reaches out to right the scattered bottles of paint Platt knocked over.

“Well, you could buy them pre-coloured, but then it’s so much more difficult to reach the level of customization and detail I prefer,” Franklin says, like he has real actual opinions on painting these impossibly tiny toy fantasy people. “Plus then we wouldn’t get to do a crafts night!”

“I’m fucking leaving,” Platt says, and then he doesn’t, because he’s here in the first place because Franklin asked him to be and Platt is only so strong when faced with his smile.

“Think how excited the boys will be when they see this!” Franklin says, all encouraging as he pats Platt’s knee, and then it’s back again, that achy, goodbad feeling that Platt hasn’t been able to shake since Ottawa. Like guilt, almost, but- different. More hurty.

It’s incredibly fucking frustrating. Like, it’s not as if it’s a surprise that Franklin’s the kind of guy to spend his whole night off crafting just to make cool figurines to surprise his friends. No good reason that should be making Platt feel any kind of way.

There’s one semi-rational reason, just one he can think of: Platt hasn’t been able to stop obsessing about seeing Franklin with his family, being all tender with his siblings. He doesn’t know what the fuck is up with his brain, fixating so much on that little glimpse, but it’s basically ruined everything, because now when Franklin invites him to craft night or looks excited about Platt sleeping over for the third time in a week or offers Platt his hoodie from practice even though Platt still hasn’t returned the one he accidentally-on-purpose wore home last weekend, all Platt can think is how little return on investment Franklin’s getting for all the nice stuff he does. Like, he’s so good to Platt, and Platt doesn’t even know anything about him outside of goalie-ing and DM-ing, even when those things, like his family, are clearly important to him.

_What’s in it for you_ , he wants to demand, every time the Franklin-induced ache in his heart appears, or maybe _tell me how to put something in this for you,_ or _I want to be half as good for you as you are to me_ ; and it’s not like he can make Franklin tell him how to do friendship right, so instead he just smudges the end of his brush again – fuck – and tries his best.

“You’re such a keener,” Platt says, approximately fifty years too late for it to be a timely chirp. “No wonder your little siblings like you so much.” The words fall out clumsy and weirdly aggressive-sounding, and Franklin blinks, pauses painting the chain mail of the tiny skeleton he’s holding, clearly not expecting the subject.

Platt is a dumbass. “I- not in a weird way, I just saw you with them after the Sens game,” he fumbles to play it off and play it cool. Doesn’t do a great job of it. Franklin’s going to think he’s a creep who was like, watching him, which he was, technically, but- “You looked happy.”

Dumb. Ass.

“You should’ve come to say hi!” Franklin says, because he always has been either oblivious to or incredibly forgiving of Platt’s assholery. “Sam’s actually my older brother, though.”

“Oh,” Platt says. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, most people assume.” Franklin shoots him a quick smile then goes back to his painting, his brow creasing with focus on the fine details, and that’s that again, all talk of himself neatly packed away.

“You know,” Platt says, then breaks off, awkward and too urgent all at once.

Franklin’s still painting. “Hm?”

“You know you can, like-” Platt does a gesture that presumably is meant to mean _something_ , but he sure as shit doesn’t know what.

“I’m sorry, I have no idea what this-” Franklin copies the gesture, “-means.”

Platt shrugs, tense. “Like. You can talk about your family or home or whatever. I don’t care.” He winces. Habit. “ _Mind_ , I don’t- I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

He is a fucking joke. This is why people don’t like him.

“Oh,” Franklin says, and there’s a definite hesitancy to his voice, Platt swears he hears it. “Thanks, Platt.”

He keeps painting. Real deliberate in his brushstrokes, this time.

Platt crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. He shifts on the couch. He curls and uncurls his hands inside his too-long sleeves.

“So… what’s Sam like?” he tries again, this wannabe casual voice that just comes out strained as anything. “Are you guys close?”

Franklin peers over at Platt, a little wry. “Is this a thing where you’re uncertain how to talk about people on the autism spectrum? Because I could point you to some very informative-”

“No,” Platt says, emphatic, because it’s _not_ , he could talk about Franklin’s brother all day if Franklin wanted to, but that’s not the point, the point is the feeling that’s been nagging at him for weeks like he’s a bad friend or worse or something else entirely, and Platt needs it to make sense, either that or to stop existing and let him go back to when he could look at Franklin without it feeling like a stab in the gut and also directly into his heart.

All the pent-up everything comes spilling out at once, grumpier than he means it to. “No, I’m uncertain how to talk about _you_ , like- I’m doing the supportive thing you always do, I’m trying to do friendship crap, would you help me out here, please?”

Franklin opens his mouth, then closes it without saying anything. He looks almost bemused. At least one of them is having fun. “Yes, I’m very close with both of my siblings,” he says, taking pity on Platt, thank fuck. “You should talk with Sam next time I call home, he and Yasmeen- and my parents, actually, probably, they’d all be so excited to finally meet you, after all my stories!”

“You told your family about me?” Platt asks, weirdness temporarily displaced by the distinct feeling of pride unfurling inside him.

“Of course!” Franklin says. “They get really excited when I have friends.” He looks embarrassed after he says that last part, the hesitancy back again, and he bites his tongue and Platt sees the little pink end of it poking out and his mouth doesn’t wait for his permission to speak.

“Fuck, do you like, try to be the cutest fucking human on the planet, or does it just happen?”

Franklin laughs, and now he sounds just as flustered as Platt. Maybe more. His hands, so certain so far, slip, and the miniature shield he’s painting smudges. “I can never tell if you’re making fun of me when you say things like that,” he says, his eyes flickering to Platt’s, and his voice is light, his face trying to be the same, but Platt’s thrown off by the real panic he sees there.

“You think I am?” he asks.

“No?” Franklin doesn’t sound sure, and he doesn’t sound like he’s joking, either, which- Platt stares, completely at a loss. He thought the Franklin not talking about home thing was about _him_ , not Franklin himself. This is wrong.

Franklin squirms a little under his gaze. “I don’t know. That’s not... I think you see me very differently than, um. Everyone. Ever.”

“Everyone who’s ever met you fucking loves you, Franklin,” Platt says, incredulous. This isn’t- wherever he saw this going, it wasn’t here. Franklin’s the most compulsively likeable person on the planet. Everyone knows it. He knows it. Platt just assumed he knew.

Franklin doesn’t look like he knows. “Platt, that’s so not...” He trails off.

“What?”

Franklin just shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a long second before lifting up the mini he’s been working on, clinging to it like it’s a life preserver. He gives Platt a smile again, like he thinks Platt can’t tell by now when it’s the kind of smile he has to force. “Could you pass me the black paint, please?”

It’s a subject change. He always changes the subject.

Platt tugs the little bottle of black paint away, out of Franklin’s reach. “How come you never talk about your family and hometown and stuff?” he asks, blunt.

“Those are two distinct topics,” Franklin says, the slightest hint of an edge to his voice. “Or- three? Or-”

“How come you’re always weird when I try to talk about you?” Platt interrupts, and Franklin sets down his figurine. He’s avoiding meeting Platt’s eyes.

“I’m not.”

“Except for how you apparently thought I’ve been making fun of you this whole time-”

“You make fun of people a lot,” Franklin says, and grabs for the bottle of paint in Platt’s hands, quick enough and unexpected enough that he plucks it right out of Platt’s grip. “And- Platt, I mean, I’m-”

Platt grabs Franklin’s hand, the one with the paint, stilling it before he can get back to work. “You’re what?”

“ _Me_ ,” Franklin says, finally meeting Platt’s gaze, and it comes out louder than he usually speaks, hangs there between them. Might as well have echoed.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Platt says, quiet. For once, quiet.

They’re both still holding onto the tiny thing of paint, Franklin’s fingers around the bottle and Platt’s around Franklin. He watches Franklin’s throat shift as he swallows.

“I’m just very-” Franklin’s matching Platt’s volume, this time, matching and more, doing his rambling thing but talking so soft Platt has to strain to hear him, even in the silent apartment. “How to put this- I as a person am sort of like if scientists genetically engineered the ideal target for a wide variety of grade school bullies? So, um, there’s not a lot of positively nostalgic hometown experiences upon which I can reflect vis-à-vis, you know, growing up and having friends and being liked by people I’m not related to, so that’s the- that’s the scenario, here, that we’re working with.”

_Oh_ , Platt thinks. He thinks-

He didn’t think they’d have this in common.

He finds himself squeezing Franklin’s hand without meaning to. “Franklin,” he says, and Franklin’s already shaking his head, already sitting up straighter, brighter.

“But it’s really fine, I figured it out!” he says, trying so, so hard, so, so obviously. “Like, I pretty much learned how to be a dungeon master so I could make friends? You know, because lots of people want to try D&D but no one really wants to learn all the background or do the necessary prep, so everyone needs a DM, so you’re never going to run out of potential groups!” He shrugs, chipper. “It’s same with hockey, right, when I was little, ‘cause no one would ever want to be in net, so if you agree to be goalie, people always let you play with them and then you kind of have friends!”

The worst part is it makes sense. Fits like a puzzle piece. Platt thinks back, thinks of Franklin running around all day every day, making a point to hang out with every guy on the team so no one would be left out, even him, of Joey’s story of eighteen year old Franklin making them breakfast; thinks of Franklin going out of his way to be always pleasant and helpful and happy, even in a second straight losing season; thinks of how worried Franklin gets every time he thinks one of the guys is unhappy with him.

“That’s... depressing,” Platt says.

“Ha,” Franklin says, this little laugh, or an attempt at one. He casts his eyes down, tugs his hand out of Platt’s, and Platt can see it right there in front of him, Franklin trying to put on his happy face, and it kind of breaks his heart. Platt’s stupid fucking _mouth_.

“Not-” Platt almost reaches for him again, stops halfway through, this aborted, instinctive gesture. “You don’t have to do shit to bribe people to be your friends,” he says finally.

Franklin tilts his head. “You do when you’re an ambiguously but obviously queer twelve year old who is the only brown kid at an incredibly white school and cries at _very_ minor provocation,” he says, maybe a little bit deadpan again, and it’s better than sad, but it’s not enough, not anywhere close.

“Fuck that,” Platt says. Franklin starts nodding, real quick.

“Yeah, we don’t have to talk about-”

“No, I mean- fuck that, anyone would be lucky to be your friend,” Platt cuts him off. Looks him right in the eyes as he speaks, because he needs Franklin to believe him. “Like, to a completely stupid extent, okay? You’re like- you’re the best thing about this place, Franklin. Every place. The absolute best.”

And Franklin looks more overwhelmed than before, which shouldn’t be possible, and Platt has this awful moment of wondering if maybe he made things worse like he tends to do, only then Franklin hugs him, yanking him close with strength that Platt never expects.

Platt hugs him back, hard, doesn’t even hesitate. Doesn’t pause to think how odd that, the lack of hesitation, is, either; doesn’t think anything except the feeling of Franklin’s arms around him, _Franklin_ around him, everywhere. Franklin doesn’t have as much of the padding that big guys usually have, mostly muscle and bone, but he’s still surprisingly comfortable to be wrapped up in. He hugs like he means it, and for all that Franklin’s an incredibly affectionate guy, it’s the first time he’s hugged Platt outside of postgame cellies, the first time anyone’s really hugged Platt in months, and it’s- it’s so _much_ , putting the ache back full-force in Platt’s heart, good and painful and a million things at once.

Platt feels small. Not in a demeaning kind of way, and not in an irritating one either, it’s- small like safe, and he kind of wants to make another not-joke about Franklin being adorable, except for how that’s not the adjective Platt wants here, or- it is, because it’s Franklin and adoration is the only reasonable response to him, the inevitable result of being in proximity to him and his smile and his general aura for longer than a minute, but adoring him aside, whatever the fuck feeling Platt is feeling when he’s curled up and Franklin’s arms are around him, all wiry strength and hard muscle, his thigh warm where it’s pressed along the length of Platt’s… ‘adorable’ maybe doesn’t quite cut it.

It’s not like that, he told Joey.

“That’s really kind of you to say, Platt,” Franklin murmurs, simple. All hushed, too, like it means something. His words tickle against the top of Platt’s ear.

“Yeah, well.” Platt clears his throat, makes himself sit up straight instead of clinging when Franklin lets go of him. Leaves their legs touching, half-slotted together. “Don’t tell people, beat reporters wouldn’t know what to write if they thought I was capable of not being a dick.”

“You’re not a dick,” Franklin’s saying, before Platt’s even done talking.

“Only with you,” Platt mumbles. Means it, too, even though it’s honestly probably a toss-up, way he just two minutes ago put his foot in his mouth about Franklin’s brother, way he’s even now being a grade-A fucking weirdo and having some internal spiral about how Franklin’s arms felt when they hugged. They felt good. He felt good. He _looks,_ like-

Franklin’s watching him, attentive, his eyes tinted this rich, amber colour in the warm light of the lamps around the room. “How come?”

Platt shrugs. Swallows the dryness in his throat. “Can’t be a dick to you, it’d be like kicking a duckling.”

Franklin’s lips twitch, but he stays watching. “I meant how come you’re-”

“A dick?”

“Abrasive,” Franklin allows. “On occasion.”

Platt figures- he maybe owes Franklin the truth, after badgering him into talking so much. One-for-one.

“You’re nice to people because you think they automatically aren’t going to like you,” Platt says, picking his words real carefully. “I’m, like. The opposite?”

He plays with the dried-on paint under his thumbnail. “Not- like, not that I think everyone’s going to love me, obviously, I just- they usually have all these ideas about what I’m going to be like, Ryan Sinclair’s kid, going so high in the draft. They’re just waiting for me to be, like, Captain America like my dad, and there’s zero chance of me ever living up to that, so no matter what I do, it’s going to be a disappointment from what they expect.”

Putting it in words feels damning, a conviction instead of a confession.

He hates-

It sucks, trying to talk about the way people feel about him in relation to his dad. Never comes out how Platt wants it to, always sounds more like emotion than fact, daddy issues or stress or some other thing than what it is, which is just simple, objective truth: people expect a lot of you when you’re supposed to be the next Ryan Sinclair. Fact. Platt’s never once measured up. Fact.

The facts are: Platt was ten years old and at a game and he doesn’t remember what happened to spark it, not even anything dramatic or traumatic to make it a worthwhile story, but he remembers the feeling exactly, how he went tipping from angry into a kind of scared he hadn’t felt before, like his body was the thing that was scared more than his mind, this panic like being electrocuted through every nerve he had so he ended up curled into himself on the bench, gasping for breath and making his coaches think he was having an asthma attack or something.

He remembers his dad leaving his own practice to come and get him after the Incident, remembers the look on his dad’s face as they walked to the car, guilty like he was the one who was the little kid.

“Maybe it’s time I hang ‘em up, huh?” his dad said, sitting there in the car after. “Be better at the whole parent thing?”

Platt peered over at him. He was feeling better by then, enough that he could mostly pretend the weirdbad panicked feeling hadn’t happened. “With me?”

“Who else, twenty-seven?” his dad grinned at him, and Platt was ten years old and mostly just excited to have his dad hanging out with him more than usual during the season, so he didn’t know ‘til years later about the stuff people said when his dad missed three games that week for ‘undisclosed family reasons’, or about the shitstorm of epic proportions that occurred when the rumour about Ryan Sinclair seriously considering retirement got out.

What he did know, what he remembers, is a few days after, half-listening to his dad in the other room on another call from his agent begging him to reconsider. Platt only heard snippets, “He’s my _kid_ -” and “I can’t keep leaving him if this is like, a real problem he has-”

Platt, playing around on his dad’s tablet in the living room, went to YouTube so he could watch clips of his dad playing, same as he always did. He clicked on the most recent one, only it wasn’t even hockey at all, just a bunch of old people talking about his dad maybe quitting, which was boring, so Platt scrolled down to the comments and read with his own eyes how people were assuming his dad was an addict or suspended or ruining his career over something stupid, and he kept scrolling and – this part he remembers clear as anything, clearer than the panic itself – he read _my cousins kid plays with his son apparently the kid has some spazzy thing_ and _of course it’s the fucking kid isn’t it always_ and then someone being funny, _who would win: an unmatched sports dynasty with a superstar leader or one (1) ginger child._

It was more people than Platt even knew existed, all of them laughing and angry and spiteful and most of them laughing and angry and spiteful at _Platt_ for ruining things. His fault.

Fact.

Platt read that, and when he felt panic rearing up and his lungs clamping down that time, he hid in the bathroom and locked the door and kept his freakout where no one would see, especially not his dad, and he did the same thing the times after that too, was loud and confident and not nervous at all, all as in-your-face obnoxiously as he could, ‘til his dad believed him and let his agent’s coaxing win out and ended up playing for four more years and winning another Cup in the process. It was better like that, Platt knew, knows still, ‘cause the people he kept looking up didn’t hate him anymore, not ‘til he got drafted by the Stars and then they started again and haven’t stopped since.

“No point trying,” he finishes, more a mumble than anything else. It takes him a while to be able to meet Franklin’s eyes. He doesn’t tell people this kind of stuff. Franklin waits, patient, ‘til he does, then, tentative as anything, gives the smallest smile. It feels like a tether, holding something frayed inside Platt in place.

“And you said _my_ thing was depressing?”

“Shut your face,” Platt says, after one stunned moment, but he finds himself laughing. He likes it when Franklin tries to have attitude. He’s so bad at it. It means he doesn’t feel like he has to be a certain way with Platt. Platt likes it so much. He likes him so much. He didn’t think there was an opposite to anxiety, but- it’s Franklin, that’s how he feels.

“I meant what I said,” Platt says, clumsy. “About you. Trust me, okay?”

“I do,” Franklin says, simple, and his eyes look a little shiny, big and brown and everything he’s feeling held right there, and it makes Platt feel like maybe he’s not so terrible at this whole friendship thing after all, and if Platt keeps looking at him he’s going to do something stupid.

Platt scrunches up a little, sinking into his hoodie like a turtle, overwhelmed. “How do I literally always end up talking about feelings stuff with you?” he asks, to say something, casting around for normalcy. This is why he doesn’t do craft nights. “We’re never doing that again, alright?”

“Alright,” Franklin echoes, and he’s maybe humouring Platt, but the shine in his eyes is happy, truly happy where it wasn’t before, and he looks so good and warm and _Franklin_ with his cozy clothes and ridiculous curls that Platt thinks, fuck it.

“We can do the hugging part again, though,” he blurts, half a request and half a statement. “Right now, actually, let’s just-” He faceplants maybe slightly less than elegantly against Franklin, mutters into his chest, “Shut up.”

He feels it when Franklin breathes a laugh, feels it when he shifts against Platt to fold him into another hug. As requested. And Platt’s not light, not by any standards, but Franklin doesn’t complain about the weight, just tucks his face into the crook of Platt’s neck and circles him in his arms, and that’s the way they stay.

There’s a fine line between hugging and cuddling, probably, a fine line that Platt has zero interest in analyzing. He’s pretty sure they’ve passed it. Pretty sure Franklin can probably feel the way his heart’s beating against his ribcage, and he can’t tell how much of that is normal Franklin proximity and how much of that is the newfound realization that, somewhere along the line, the abstract awareness that Franklin Nahmoud is the most inside-and-out beautiful human on the planet turned into the very non-abstract desire to stay wrapped up in him and never leave.

_I want to kiss him_ , Platt thinks, just like that, and it feels like something clicking into place.

Platt wants to kiss him. Holy shit, Platt wants him.

He loses track of how long he and Franklin stay like that. Notices, somewhere along the line, Franklin’s fingers tracing the letters of his own last name where they’re screen printed across Platt’s back, _N-A-H-M-O-U-D,_ and Platt’s not ticklish, especially not on his shoulderblades, duh, but he has to tamp down a shiver, has to turn in closer so Franklin won’t be able to see the way his face is burning. Has to hope that Franklin won’t hold it against him that he’s never, ever giving this hoodie back, not in a fucking century.

“Offer still stands,” Platt says, mostly a joke. Probably a joke. “Get off of this hellmouth with me, we’ll go win a cup in Cali or something.”

Franklin laughs, soft. It’s a good laugh. Maybe a little sad. Gone before Platt can focus in on it, so Platt just breathes him in, the familiar smell of Franklin’s bodywash, the slow, looping movements of his fingers through the soft fabric. Platt guesses he’s technically having a crisis or something, some kind of long overdue realization, but it doesn’t feel like it, doesn’t resemble in the slightest the times when he has to lock himself in the bathroom and hide in the shower and remind himself how to breathe.

He’s not scared of this. How could he be? How could he, with Franklin?

Platt doesn’t mean to fall asleep, doesn’t know how he even could, at a time like this, but he guesses he must, because when he wakes up again, it’s dark, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is. Franklin’s arm is a dull weight where it’s resting on Platt’s lower back. His stomach lifts and falls as he breathes, slow and rhythmic and rumbly, and it nudges against Platt each time.

Platt closes his eyes again. He’s not scared, he thinks, and again, and again, looking for the lie, but he doesn’t find one. Nothing but the truth.

“Franklin,” he whispers, just to say it. Franklin snores quietly against him.

And he’s an impossible thing to hope for, but Platt does. He hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> character has a panic attack in the past/in a flashback; someone online uses the word 'spaz' to describe this character during that panic attack


	8. Chapter 8

It’s a paradox kind of thing, Platt guesses: on the one hand, he hasn’t missed an optional morning skate since juniors, because the optional part means that people will see him there and know he works hard, maybe like him a little more. On the other hand, though, even as he knows that being there can affect how people see him, part of why he likes it so much is that it’s just about the only time he can get on the ice and feel like no one’s watching and waiting for a screwup.

There’s something calming about it, way the rink’s empty enough, just Platt and the injured guys and scratches, maybe one or two other regulars, that the sound of skate blades on ice is the noisiest thing. Like hockey minus all the eyes on him. Hockey how Platt wishes it could always feel.

“Let’s- _go_ -” Platt grunts, charging in and keeping his feet moving while Daniil tries to box him out. They’ve been practicing this a while. Win-win, Platt figures: he gets to work on getting to the front of the net. His teammate gets to get better defending the rush.

Not better enough, yet – Platt roofs the puck, and Toivy, staying late in net since Franklin’s got the start tonight, grins at him. “Vintage Sinclair, huh?”

Platt rolls his eyes by way of response as Daniil comes around to lean on the net all wistful. “That shit makes me feel so old, I slept in his dad’s jersey ‘til I was, like, ten.”

“Weird thing to tell me, Kulik,” Platt says, then shoves him off the net, but gently. “Do it again, you almost stopped me.”

They run through the drill a few more times, ‘til Daniil’s stopping the rush consistently; then, when Harden and CJ drift over after finishing up with whatever faceoff stuff they were doing, the four of them end up in a half-circle around the net, putting pucks on Toivy ‘til the trainers come to kick them off so they don’t burn out before the game tonight.

Platt still doesn’t _quite_ know how it happened, the optional skate rejects – he feels a little bad, calling them that – getting under the same wrong illusion as Daniil and the D&D group, that Platt’s _nice_. As long as they’re letting him practice with them, though, and joking around with him and stuff, he doesn’t see the harm in just... letting them continue to be wrong. For practice reasons.

Platt jogs all the way up to his room once he’s back at his hotel. Sets his alarm for tonight, heart-reacts to Franklin’s _Happy gameday!!_ text and puts the latest container of food Mendoza gave him in the microwave to reheat while he packs for tomorrow’s roadie.

Once the food’s ready, Platt prods a little suspiciously at a weird-shaped lump that looks _almost_ like a potato – they left the vegan thing behind and have been on some kind of all-organic kick for a couple weeks – before trying it and finding it edible, if still confusing, texture-wise. And, see, Platt’s not stupid. It has occurred to him that maybe the leftovers story isn’t true, because if it is, the Mendozas have been making precisely one Platt-sized serving extra for multiple months now. He’s not dumb.

He hasn’t brought it up. He’s not _going_ to bring it up, because he doesn’t want them to get all weird about it, and besides, no one’s ever really made homemade food for him before. He might be wrong, anyways. He doesn’t see the harm in letting that continue, either.

Rest of the day goes as most of them do. Platt takes his pregame nap, changes into his suit, drives into the rink with Franklin. It’s routine enough by now that Platt doesn’t hardly even feel like he wants to throw up or cry or anything as he’s lining up for puck drop, almost like a little shard of that quiet, morning-skate calm stays with him.

The game goes routine too, for this team. Choppy in the middle and not a whole lot happening offensively. Franklin’s playing out of his mind, though, so they’re only down a goal when CJ ties it on a slapper from the point, and they hang on to force OT. And a pity point is already pretty good, by their standards, but it’s not enough, not tonight – Platt races down the ice, the one Hurricane who made it back at his side and Darling at his heels.

Platt bears down on the goalie, keeps his eyes up, passes through his legs to where he thinks Darling’s behind him, to where he _hopes_ the goalie’s overcommitted, and he figures that he was right about both those things by the sound – Flames fans have had almost as bad a season as the team, mostly showing up to home games just to watch loss after loss, but you wouldn’t know it by the way the building _explodes_ with cheers, almost deafening, as Platt’s line converges on each other.

“What a goal!” Mendoza’s howling away, maximum volume as usual, “And that _pass_ , Platthew, you fucking lucky charm!”

Darling reaches up and pats the top of Platt’s helmet, hard, but he’s smiling too. “He even looks like a leprechaun,” he says, and facewashes Platt when Platt shoves him, too happy to have any real heat to the gesture.

The three of them almost topple over as they’re smushed into the boards by the rest of the team, a giant group hug with Platt mostly-buried in the centre. He catches tiny little glimpses – Daniil attempting to noogie him through his helmet, CJ squishing like five guys in one single hug – and has to squirm out from the pile to be able to see past the crush of his teammates’ bodies. He peers up at the jumbotron, the way it’s picking out particularly exuberant fans, and sees one girl clapping along, a guy pointing all proud at the _SINCLAIR_ on his back. Platt does a double take when he sees the 27 on his back. It’s _his_. Someone’s in his sweater.

His cheeks hurt, he smiles so big. He’s never panicking ever again, not the way he feels now.

“Platt,” he hears, over the crowd, and turns around in time for Franklin to duck down and bop his cage to Platt’s visor.

“What a game, goalie,” Platt tells him, just for them, even as their crowd is still roaring. He’s so good. Tonight, he can convince himself they’re good.

“Not too bad yourself,” Franklin says, goofy, his eyes all crinkled and sparkly as he returns Platt’s grin, and the whole exchange lasts maybe three seconds before Franklin’s getting tugged out of Platt’s reach so the rest of the boys can hug him, but that’s the pretty cool thing about having a crush and knowing it, is that that tiny moment with Franklin still aches a little, but it also makes Platt feel like he’s bouncing on clouds the whole rest of the evening. Most of the night, too.

He didn’t think he had any room left to be surprised by Franklin.

There’s something about telling someone your most secret scariest sad thoughts and having them tell you theirs back for making you see things in a new light, Platt guesses, even if the telling happened at a craft night turned extended cuddle sesh. It’s like- he did the whole feelings realization thing that night, and he thought that was it, but it keeps happening again and again, every time Franklin smiles or says a lame fact or makes some dorky joke. It makes Platt feel different, like, as a person, or at least like he makes more sense to himself, _oh, this is why I feel like exploding and also floating every time he does that_ , that kind of thing.

Franklin’s been different too, around Platt. Comfier, almost. He’s hauled Platt in a couple of times when he’s called his family, and Platt finds himself knowing all of them a little, the way Franklin’s parents seem genuinely happy to see the two of them hanging out, the way Franklin’s little sister Yasmeen is almost as sunshiney as Franklin, the way Sam doesn’t or can’t talk a ton but matches Franklin’s enthusiasm when the two of them get going about video games.

And even beyond that – somehow, Platt gets stuff even beyond that – there are these little peeks, longer and longer glimpses into a Franklin that’s just Platt’s, no one else’s. He gets to see Franklin teasing in his gentle way, getting snarky if Platt says something real dumb, giving an exasperated little eye roll when his parents lecture him in Arabic and he responds in English. Platt can’t help but feel that amazed feeling again, like- Franklin’s _real_ , there’s a whole entire human in the world as good as him who somehow likes Platt and hasn’t gotten sick of being around him even though Platt’s been staying in his guest room more nights than not and leaving with Franklin’s hoodies most of those nights. Platt’s pretty sure Franklin doesn’t even notice, so he doesn’t bother feeling guilty.

He _does_ actually feel a little guilty when he jerks off while wearing a stolen Steelheads sweatshirt with Franklin’s number from juniors, but- like, ‘ambiguously and obviously queer’ is what Franklin said about himself, and yeah, Platt fixates a little, because he hadn’t let himself assume but now he can, and is, and he holds that little piece of possibility real close to his chest, carries it around like a glowing ember, feels it spark every time he and Franklin touch, which is, honestly, a whole fucking lot of times. A _lot_. More than Platt was aware of before, and more than could be accidental, he thinks, if it was just him projecting, ‘cause it’s their feet touching under the table at breakfast and Platt finding excuses to fix Franklin’s scarf and Franklin ducking down close so he can do it easier and the backs of their hands brushing and staying brushing when they’re walking side by side. The other day, Platt got up the nerve to put his hand on Franklin’s knee the whole bus ride to the rink, and got rewarded with Franklin failing just absolutely miserably at hiding the way his whole face lit up.

It’s just.. good. It’s been really good. Platt has never really done the whole liking people thing before, not like this, but he’s pretty sure it can’t always be this good, and everything reasonable inside of him is like- look at you and look at Franklin, it’s probably inevitable you’ll fuck this up, but then Franklin smiles at him and Platt starts thinking crazy things like _but what if I don’t_.

Platt guesses- like, fine, he’s smiling out the window at the clouds, maybe halfway through the flight to Vegas, and Darling peers over from the row of seats to his left.

“And what are you grinning about?” he asks, all dry.

“You texting Moore?” Platt asks back, lightning quick, and Darling flips him off and goes back to texting his embarrassing and hopeless crush.

 _Sucker_ , Platt thinks, and goes back to thinking about Franklin’s eyelashes.

It’s only later, way later, once they’ve landed in Nevada and shuffled into the hotel and Darling’s snoring from one bed over that Platt thinks about the game, that celly after the OT winner, Darling chirping and hugging him on the ice, and wonders if this means the plan’s a success. He hasn’t thought about it in a while. A long while. Can’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

Platt scrolls through his usual notifications, the backlog that’s accumulated over the last almost-a-week without checking. Another thing he almost forgot about. They’re better than he’s used to, tonight, a quote from Coach when the beat reporters asked about him, “Sinclair’s the kind of guy you build around, maybe a little shy at first, but from what I’ve observed, he works as hard as anyone I’ve played with or coached,” and then, like that wasn’t enough, comments and tweets pouring in, _that’s our boy,_ and _still not a goal but godDAMN what a pass_. They like him, here, Platt thinks, and feels like he could fly.

His phone lights up with an incoming call, so Platt grabs his room key, leaves Darling sleeping and slips into the hall to answer.

“I _know_ I saw you pull that off in practice, but game speed? Buddy!” his dad is gushing as soon as Platt picks up, is the first thing Platt sees, and the second is that his dad’s not sitting alone.

“I almost even felt an emotion about sports, can you believe it?” his mom says, very droll, and Platt really thought she’d be gone by now, but his dad rolls his eyes at her, grinning big, and the two of them are sitting real close, squashed into the frame together like it’s normal. Like a habit. Like this time is different.

It’s been years – _years_ – since they’ve all talked together like this, the three of them.

“Hi,” Platt says. Feels younger than he usually does when he asks, “You guys watched my game?”

“Studying game tape,” his dad jokes. “Know your enemy and all, right?”

“Oh, hush,” Platt’s mom scolds, gently, before turning their camera more in her own direction and addressing Platt. “I know it’s late, but Ryan and I were talking and I think it would just be the nicest thing in the world if we all did brunch when you’re playing here next week. Won’t that be nice, pumpkin?”

It takes Platt a second to process that, because knowing your parents are kind of sort of probably temporarily back together isn’t the same thing as actually seeing it and being part of it. He hasn’t really been sure what to expect from his first game back in Dallas. Not this.

“Brunch,” he echoes, and his dad looks hopeful, but maybe more noticeably, all Platt really notices, is the look on his mom’s face. Almost nervous, like she means it. Like she thinks Platt’s going to say no, tell her to fuck off.

He considers it. Then he considers the way Franklin’s family looked when he saw them together, the way his mom was fighting happy tears. The way his teammates crushed him into a hug tonight and he didn’t even mind.

“I- okay,” Platt says, after a pause. “If you want to.”

His dad looks as happy as Platt’s ever seen him, and sort of like maybe he might cry too, and Platt is absolutely not ready to cope with that, so he says, quick, “I’m gonna- should get some sleep.”

He watches his dad wrap his arm around his mom’s shoulders as he says, easily, “Love you, twenty-seven.”

“Yeah, you guys too,” Platt says. He doesn’t, like, _mean_ to use the plural, it just happens, and he watches his mom’s eyes widen a little, watches his dad’s eyes light up like Platt just gave him some kind of gift.

Platt stays out in the hallway a long time after he hangs up. He can’t-

 _Years_ , since him and his dad and his mom all hung out together. Actual years. He doesn’t know why he said yes.

His mom looked like she might’ve been happy, when he accidentally said he loved her. She didn’t say it back, but- that’s something, right? On a night like this? When it’s been years?

Years ago, last time they were almost a family, Platt wasn’t spending most of his time in Canada. He didn’t have a hobby and two groupchats and obnoxious teammates who actually laugh if he sends them stuff.

At the very least, he thinks, fighting a smile – since when the _fuck_ has he been an optimist – he’ll have a lot to tell her.

\---

“Natural _fucking_ twenty!” Platt crows, and he doesn’t know when he got to the point of knowing what that is, or what a counterspell is, or what the living fuck a lich is – what the undead fuck a lich is? – but he does, and it works, and it’s _awesome_.

D&D feels like hockey, almost, right then, when Platt pulls off that move and the guys all celly so big CJ almost knocks over the whole table of margaritas Mendoza made. He’s been stepping up his snacks and beverages game, recently.

“Oh my god,” Madeline says, pretending like she’s not laughing and doing a truly terrible job of it. She’s downstairs with them tonight, Platt suspects more for the margaritas than for the joy of witnessing her husband and his teammates killing imaginary monsters. “Can’t believe I ever once thought you were cool,” she informs Platt.

“I never thought you were cool,” Platt informs her right back, even though it’s a blatant lie, she’s objectively cool as hell by wine mom standards, and even her daughters are tolerable by child standards, which is saying something.

“Oh, I so badly want to be mad at you for ruining that spell, but that was _wonderful_ ,” Franklin’s gushing, and Mendoza chimes in, agreeing.

“Uh, guys, I know bards are kind of inherently assholes, but Bruce Wayne is somehow awesome?”

“How many times have I told you that magic classes beat melee classes’ _ass_ ,” Darling demands, before adding, to Platt, “This doesn’t mean I’m admitting your character is awesome, for the record.”

Platt makes a face at him, and Darling makes one back before going back to the game, Franklin nudging them along through the turn order.

They like Platt’s character, is what this is about. He knows that. Maybe they like him on the ice, too. Even if it’s just that, though, those two things, that’s still eons better than, like, any other group of people who’ve ever spent more than ten minutes with Platt his whole life. More than he deserves, probably.

They kill the lich, dick around a while in the town they saved before the game trails off into just hanging out. Platt can blame the margaritas for that. They were good margaritas. He’s pretty sure he didn’t even _like_ margaritas, three margaritas ago, that’s how good these ones were. He wonders if this is what he’s been missing every time he didn’t go out with the team.

Platt sighs at the ceiling, content. It only spins a little.

Mendoza and Maddy abandoned them a while ago, totally a hundred percent used their kids as an excuse to go upstairs and sleep like the old people they are; CJ’s sprawled out and snoring on the couch, because he pretty much just does what he wants, sober or drunk, which means that Platt’s left with Franklin and Darling as the only other two awake. Only Franklin counts, probably, because Darling is fucking wasted in _the_ most embarrassing way possible, which Platt can confirm even though he also might be very mildly and way, way less embarrassingly fucking wasted too.

“Listen to me,” he says, firm. Drunk Platt is a talker. Normal Platt is also a talker. Platt thinks he might have a talking problem. “Listen, I know you fucked up kissing Moore the first time, but you gotta do it again. You _gotta_.”

“I can’t do it again,” Darling says, only a little slurred. Enough that he doesn’t even remember to use his normal ‘I’m way too old and sophisticated for this conversation’ voice to address Platt. “Should I do it again?”

Platt nods so fast that the room goes blurry. “ _Yes_ , bro, you’re a fucking catch.”

“I _know_ , but so is Joey, that’s the whole problem.” Darling lays down. Whacks his head on the coffee table as he does. “Ow.”

“Listen to me,” Platt repeats, putting on his best Sinclair-style, Captain America motivational speech voice. “You got a bunch of goals. You got a degree. You got pastel polo shirts, those are basically dripping with sex appeal.”

That last one is a chirp. Darling does not take it as such. “I just had a mint-coloured one tailored, I’m so excited to wear it,” he admits, fanning himself with a crinkled-up character sheet. “The _stitching_.”

“Holy fuck you suck _so bad_ ,” Platt cackles, leaning back against Franklin, who doesn’t drink and is therefore the only one still mostly upright and, for some reason, still putting up with them. He doesn’t complain about the weight of Platt, just shifts ‘til Platt feels one of Franklin’s arms against his back, steadying. Almost protective, it feels like, and Platt? Does not hate it.

Darling is humming like maybe he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

“Man,” Platt says, after a few moments of just thinking. “Honestly?”

Darling hums again. “Preferably.”

“I feel like… you and Moore are kind of perfect together,” Platt says, and means it. Darling and Joey are a matching combo of passionate and restrained, both tryhard nerds in their own ways, both funny in matching ones. Platt wants them to smush faces and feel happy. “You should go for it,” he says, blinking to refocus himself. Focusing on Franklin’s arm on his back instead, but only for a second. “You know I’d insult you about it if I could. But I can’t. You really like this guy. And you’re both, like, good. So you should go for it.”

Darling looks up at him, oddly vulnerable from where he’s flat on the floor. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Platt nods, and Darling looks over at Franklin for confirmation – _rude_ – and Franklin nods too.

“Platt _would_ insult you about this if he could,” he agrees. “He’s very honest.”

Platt elbows him, gently, for the chirp, and Franklin bumps him in return with the arm around his back. They trade smiles.

Darling’s got his hands folded under his head, oblivious. “I got it so bad for him, guys,” he says, all wistful. Franklin coos. Platt snorts.

“Lameass,” he says, and if it comes out fonder than he’d care to admit, it’s solely because of the margaritas. Anyways- Franklin won’t tell anyone.

They leave together, the way they usually do. Platt waits for Franklin to tuck a blanket over a snoring Darling, then gets distracted watching how Franklin’s back muscles shift as he moves and forgets to blink until Franklin nudges him up the stairs and toward the door.

“That went good, huh?” Platt whisper-asks, holding out his arms one at a time so Franklin can help him into his big winter jacket. “Plan-wise, Franklin?”

“I think so,” Franklin says. “Your cheeks are very red.”

“I’m so drunk,” Platt agrees, struggling with his zipper while Franklin retrieves his own coat from the closet. “Right?”

“That seems right, yes,” Franklin nods again. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh. Platt wishes he would laugh more, he looks nice when he laughs. He always looks nice, though.

“Thank you, Platt,” Franklin says, and now he really does laugh, just small. Platt did not realize he was speaking out loud. “You too.”

“Franklin,” Platt says, standing on his toes so he can stare Franklin straight-on in the eyes and tap his nose. “You. Should. Give me a piggy-back home.”

Franklin dodges another attempted nose-tap. “What if I give you a piggy-back to the car, and then I’ll drive you home with the heat on, because you’re not as light as your height would suggest and it’s almost minus-thirty out?”

“That’s not a real weather number,” Platt says, but he’s in too good a mood to even let Canada being Canada annoy him, tonight. “But okay. Take me home.”

For all his complaining, the cold’s not _too_ terribly annoying, not when he’s this sleepy-drunk. Sleepy-tipsy, maybe. Not bad. Platt curls up in the passenger seat, listens to the occasional ticking of Franklin’s indicator, blinks his eyes when they get bleary and watches the lights.

“You missed the turn,” he says, tracing his finger along the window to match the cars that pass.

“You said to bring you home, your hotel’s this-” Franklin starts then stops, and then he gives Platt this look like he’s not sure whether he wants to smile or cry or feel an emotion too big for Platt to think about right now, and Platt’s too busy yawning to think too much on it anyhow.

He lets Franklin lead him by the hand up to his place, makes his way into Franklin’s bedroom to borrow some PJs without having to be led anywhere. Except-

“Where’s all the sweaters?” Platt asks, put out and frowning down into the empty drawer. He would’ve brought one of the ones he stole, if he knew the drawer wouldn’t have any.

“It’s not even cold in here, Platt,” Franklin says, even though that’s hardly even really an answer. He’s standing in the doorframe, taking up mostly the whole thing.

“It’s always cold, Franklin,” Platt grumbles, trying to summon up something more than mild indignation, even as he feels himself rambling. “That’s another reason why the Calgary Flames is a stupid name, you know, like, flames are hot and Alberta during all of hockey season definitely isn’t…”

His brain stops making words. His brain stops making words and thoughts and also telling his body to like, breathe and blink and exist as a human, because it is distracted by the fact that, casual as anything, as Platt’s talking, Franklin is pulling his own sweatshirt over his head. The t-shirt he’s wearing underneath gets all rucked up as he does, revealing this expanse of golden-brown skin, and the thing about Franklin is he’s skinny but he works out same as the rest of them and it, uh, definitely shows, and that’s not even getting started on the way that his hair’s all tousled and fluffy when he emerges to smooth his shirt back down.

The good news is Platt’s brain starts working again. The less good news is that ‘working’ means mostly just doing some high pitched screaming as Franklin holds out the sweater to him.

“...hot,” Platt finishes, five or maybe six consecutive centuries late.

He takes the sweater. Stands there like a dumbass just holding it ‘til Franklin turns around and busies himself finding pajamas. When Platt finally tugs on the sweater, it’s still warm from Franklin wearing it all evening, and it smells like him and a little like Mendoza’s basement, and when Platt pokes his fingers out of the too-long sleeves and touches the logo on the front for some comic con half a decade ago- he felt like he was maybe sobering up, but he feels spinny all over again.

He takes a few steps, sits down on the bed, then falls back, laying against the pillows. Remembers once he does that it’s Franklin’s room, not the guest room, but he’s sure as shit not getting up again, so he just pats the other side of the bed, expectant.

Franklin’s back in his spot by the door, standing there and watching. That look’s on his face again, the one Platt can’t quite read. “I should probably get you water or something,” he says, quietly. Mostly to himself, it sounds like. “For metabolism.”

“It’s okay,” Platt says, yawning. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not,” Franklin says, and this time, when Platt pats the empty half of the sheets, Franklin crosses the room and, real carefully, it seems like, lies down next to him.

Platt turns onto his side to see him better, tucking one arm under his own head like a cushion. Franklin copies, and he looks so good and soft and rumpled and Platt wants to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

He sighs his way into a scowl, put out by the impossible distance from not-kissing to kissing, and his scowl must not be as fearsome and intense as he intended, because it makes Franklin smile.

“Franklin,” Platt says, like an idiot, because Franklin smiles are lethal enough when his brain is operating properly, let alone after a couple too many terrible margaritas. “Are you staying ‘cause I asked?”

It’s _such_ an embarrassing thing to blurt out, insecure and not even pretending not to be. Franklin still doesn’t make fun of him. “Do you not want me to?” is all he asks, meeting Platt’s eyes a little concerned. “I can go-”

“This is _your bed_ ,” Platt says, just about sober enough to know how totally ridiculous that offer was, and it’s so _Franklin_ , to offer to kick himself out of his own room just at the suggestion that Platt maybe might not have meant what he said about wanting him to stay, that it feels kind of like getting punched in the heart. Platt wants to punch everyone who ever made Franklin default to thinking he doesn’t deserve everything ever. “It’s yours, and you’re comfy here, you don’t have to- like, ever, just because me or anyone is asking- you shouldn’t just-” He breaks off, frustrated with his own inability to make the words he wants.

“What’s wrong?” Franklin asks, because of course he’s still worried about Platt now. Platt despairs.

“All you do is take care of people,” he says, trying to form the sentence right as he fights another yawn and maybe also a sudden and very unwelcome lump in his throat. “You think you have to,” he manages, then, words spilling out without his permission, “What if... what if you feel like that with me and then you don’t want me around anymore?”

Franklin’s eyes widen a little, with surprise, Platt thinks, and his mouth opens then closes, and then they’re just looking at each other, something cracked-open about it.

It’s Platt’s turn to be surprised, then: Franklin reaches up, lays the back of his hand on Platt’s cheek. “Look at you,” he says, and his voice is holding so much tenderness in it that Platt has to close his eyes. “Why do you look scared?”

“Dunno,” Platt mumbles. He turns his face into his arm-slash-pillow – not enough to dislodge Franklin’s hand – and sighs again. “S’not your fault, I’m pretty much always.”

Franklin’s brows dip, his eyes at their absolute biggest and saddest. “Scared?”

Platt hums an agreement as his yawn finally escapes. Franklin drags his fingers along Platt’s jaw, doesn’t pull away, even though Platt’s breath definitely smells like terrible mixed drinks. Platt wants to fall asleep like this, with him.

“I want you to like me so bad, Franklin,” Platt whispers, sleepy.

“I like you very much,” Franklin whispers back. “You never make me feel like I have to do anything. Or be anything. I-” He breathes out this little laugh, almost like it’s at himself. Almost like he’s surprised by it. “I really-”

He takes his hand from Platt’s face, and Platt mourns the loss of touch only ‘til their fingertips touch in the tiny amount of space between them. Platt shifts, slots their fingers together, and Franklin lets him. Platt’s focusing on all these disparate little things; the dark hairs on Franklin’s knuckles, the tiny papercut on his index finger, the way his nails are all nice and curved and neat.

“I really like you, Platt,” Franklin says again, practically silent.

That little bit of possibility, the one Platt’s been carrying along inside him for a while now, hums hummingbird-style, fluttering against the inside of his ribs, and Platt’s never really been one to watch his mouth.

“Should I kiss you now or when I’m not drunk, so you know I mean it?” he asks, meeting Franklin’s eyes and maybe getting lost in them, just the usual amount.

The heartbeats before Franklin answers go by slow as anything. Platt _feels_ them. Then-

“The second one, please,” Franklin says. Just as soft as Platt was talking, and it takes Platt a second to process that answer, too, and then he’s fighting a smile.

“Yeah?”

Franklin nods, earnest, and they exchange these tiny smiles, like they’ve got this secret thing, just for the two of them. Platt’s so fucking excited to kiss him. He’s excited Franklin _exists_ , even aside from the kissing. Like- wow. He’s so- wow.

Franklin giggles, then, gently but definitely teasing, asks, “How are you the one blushing, _you_ asked _me_ -”

Platt hides his face in Franklin’s neck while Franklin laughs. More goalie secrets, he guesses, the way getting chirped by Franklin feels like getting his praises sung by anyone else. He just- he loves the way Franklin looks at him, like he _likes_ him, like Platt can maybe even believe that. Platt doesn’t believe in anything like he believes in Franklin.

He pouts as Franklin disentangles their fingers, but the burgeoning grumpiness melts into nothing when Franklin doesn’t pull away, just scoots down the bed enough that he can tuck his head close against Platt’s chest, making himself small. As small as it’s possible for him to be. _Fucking tall people_ , Platt thinks, would-be-disdainfully, and that just sounds hopelessly affectionate too, even in his head. _Fucking Franklin._

He shifts, tucking his toes between Franklin’s legs so they’ll stay warm. Franklin doesn’t complain about his cold feet, doesn’t complain when Platt snakes an arm around him, just returns the favour, holding Platt around the middle. Platt bets Franklin can hear his heart. He wonders if it’s loud. Bets it is.

“Platt?”

“Franklin,” Platt echoes. Matching his quiet.

There’s a long pause. Franklin’s shoulders shift as he takes a breath.

“You’re happy here, right?” he says, haltingly, like he’s genuinely unsure. Then, “Um. What I mean is, are you happy here?”

Platt pulls his fingers through Franklin’s soft curls. He could be happy in the middle of the fucking arctic, if he had this. “You actually like me,” he says, amazed. “We like each other.” He is for sure not quite as sober as he thought, yet. Definitely more honest, though.

He feels Franklin’s little puff of laughter against his chest. “Was that an answer, or-”

“Yeah,” Platt says. “Yeah, Franklin, I’m happy.”

And that, he realizes as he drifts off, warm and content and comfortable in Franklin’s bed, is honest, too.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- spoilery content warning in chapter end notes

They fly into DFW the evening before the Stars game, and Platt only realizes he’s been talking rapid-fire for the last forty minutes straight when the plane’s wheels touch down.

“-and if you want you can say hi to them when they come to pick me up tomorrow, or maybe after the game if you want, ‘cause they’ll be at the rink to watch, probably,” he says, playing with Franklin’s fingers where their hands are laced on the armrest between them. “And – sorry, we can get up and get our stuff – but my mom’s like, _really_ talkative, so she’ll like you, and my dad likes everyone, pretty much, but he’ll like you especially.”

“You’re so excited,” Franklin says, eyes crinkled as he smiles like Platt being excited is a thing worth smiling about. And- he’s right, is the thing, the really amazing thing. Platt’s terrified to play in front of this crowd again, in front of the management and reporters who drafted him and hated everything he did, but he’s got plans with _both_ his parents, and the party has plans with Joey tonight and Platt bets Darling’s going to make a move, and it’s just-

It’s exciting. It feels _good_.

“Up and at ‘em, kids,” Mendoza sing-songs, whacking the back of Franklin’s headrest as he passes, so Platt gets up too, almost gets beaned in the head by Toivy looming to get his stuff from the overhead holder, which Platt guesses he can’t begrudge him, after stealing his seat next to Franklin and all.

Platt ends up walking between both goalies as they file through the private terminal, which he tends to avoid, ‘cause they’re both massive and subsequently hard to see around. It means he and Franklin get to walk without stopping the handholding, though, so: worth it, even though it means that Platt’s caught entirely by surprise when Toivy switches tack mid-sentence, says, “Is that Ryan Sinclair?”

Daniil shows up like he was _summoned_ , before Platt can even peer past his goalies to see if Toivonen’s right. “Oh my god, he’s even handsomer in person.”

“Keep it in your pants, Danny boy,” Mendoza says, loud, from a few paces back, while Franklin covers his mouth to hide a laugh.

“Platt, can I-”

“No.” Platt cuts Daniil off before he has to witness more weird thirsting over his dad. His dad who, at the moment, now that Platt finally manages to elbow his way through his teammates and actually see him, has somehow played the Ryan Sinclair card to be let into their arrivals area and is waving all goofy, holding an actual literal _sign_.

Platt only lets go of Franklin’s hand so he can hide his face. It’s like- okay, A, the brunch they planned for the two of them and Platt’s mom isn’t ‘til tomorrow and his dad showing up with a _WELCOME HOME PLATT!_ sign is so deeply lame that Platt might actually die; that said, B, the airport greeting, making an event of it thing makes Platt feel like how he imagines all his other teammates have felt when they arrived at hometown games and had parents do the whole welcoming committee deal. He feels, like- _proud_ , realizing that his mom and dad are going to see him walking out with all these guys around him, looking like he’s fitting into a team the way he never really did growing up.

Platt leaves his teammates, half-walks, half-runs for his dad, who promptly ups the embarrassment factor to ten million by scooping Platt into a big enough hug that Platt’s feet literally leave the ground.

“Oh my god,” Platt complains, but he hugs his dad too, patting him on the back a few times. “You’re so lame, put me down.”

His dad’s features are basically a rounder version of Platt’s, his hair a few shades darker. Almost could be twins, except Platt would never _ever_ let himself smile that big in public. “I missed you so much, man.”

“Gross, you too,” Platt laughs, still real aware of his entire team a ways back, but not enough that he’s not smiling, pleased at the attention. He _missed_ him. He can’t help himself from adding, raising his eyebrows, “You look so fuckin’ old, look at you, you empty nester.”

“Yeah, keep it up, smartass,” his dad punches his shoulder, barely even pauses for breath before he’s interrogating Platt. “Are you good? Is it weird being back? Are your coaches still being good to you? You’ve been eating and stuff?”

“Have I been _eating_? Ho-ly,” Platt cackles, ‘cause even aside from the fact that he’s best described as ‘stocky’ and hasn’t missed a meal in years, that was the most, like, suburban PTA parent question ever, and he and his dad make fun of those parent-y parents on a regular basis. Like he said: lame.

Maybe nice too, to get the confirmation that his dad apparently actually missed him, which Platt kind of knew, but the proof feels good.

It’s as good a start as Platt could hope for for his big homecoming revenge game, only it’s him, so the good ends as soon as it began.

“Did mom wait in the car or what?” he asks, looking around like maybe she’s standing right there and he somehow didn’t see her. Then, when he still doesn’t see her, he looks at his dad, ‘cause brunch isn’t ‘til tomorrow but they can maybe get dinner or something, since they came all the way to the airport for Platt, or-

His dad’s got his mouth open to answer the question. Platt meets his eyes, though, and his dad doesn’t say anything, because this part, at least, they’ve done before, and the look on his dad’s face, they both know Platt doesn’t need to be told.

She didn’t show. Isn’t going to show.

Platt’s breath comes out all at once.

The rest of the terminal feels silent. Is silent, maybe. Platt stops noticing it. Might as well be standing in an empty tunnel.

Of course.

Of _course_.

The laugh that claws its way out of Platt this time is ugly. Empty. “Of course,” he says, and then he laughs again. Of fucking course. What was he thinking?

His dad looks crushed. At least Platt knows what all the fuss was for, now. Nothing motivates like guilt. “I’m sor-”

“I don’t actually care,” Platt cuts him off, utterly and completely determined to mean it, but not enough that he can stop himself from tacking on, “She was here for like, months this time, wasn’t she? When’d she call it quits?”

His dad looks at the ground. “Couple days ago.”

 _Right before you arrived,_ is what he doesn’t say. Platt doesn’t need to be told that, either. His dad’s not going to blame him. His dad’s an idiot. This is all so _fucking_ idiotic, the both of them.

“Told you so, I guess,” Platt says, curt. It makes his dad wince. Platt knew it would hurt him. Said it anyways. Feels guilty, anyways.

“Yeah, I guess you did,” his dad says, finally. He doesn’t get mad at Platt or anything. He never really does. He deserves a million times better son than he’s got. He sighs, visibly braces himself. “I-”

“ _Pst_ ,” someone hisses from behind Platt’s back, the world’s loudest whisper. His whole team’s still here. Still getting in his business. Nothing has changed at all. “ _Platt-Platt-Platt-”_

Platt straightens up, clears his throat. Latches onto the out with everything he’s got.

“Fine, c’mon,” he says, loud, without looking over toward the team; then, to his dad, “He’s like, obsessed with you.”

His dad manages a mostly-believable smile over Platt’s shoulder, though Platt’s pretty thoroughly murdered any happy reunion mood there was. “Want to grab dinner, or-”

“Nah, I’m gonna go,” Platt says. “Don’t get weirded out by Kulik.”

His dad waves off the concern, too used to fanboys to mind. “Get some rest,” he says, messing up Platt’s hair, just once, an admirable attempt. “Kick our asses tomorrow, alright, twenty-seven?”

“Plan on it, seventy-two,” Platt says, and he guesses that he manages to fit a believable amount of assholery into the statement, because his dad looks sufficiently relieved as Platt leaves him to his autographing and selfie-taking, so, great, one less thing to worry about. Not that Platt’s worried about his mom not showing up. Not that he gives a shit at all, actually, because he knew she wouldn’t show, because she never shows, and he’s not even surprised even at all, really.

He shouldn’t be fucking surprised.

It’s not like he cares about her any more than she clearly doesn’t care about him. He’s mostly just annoyed on his dad’s behalf, actually, because he’s the one fool enough to have gotten his hopes up about her, not Platt. And- and even if Platt _had_ had any of those hopes, it was his own fault for being stupid enough to think that this time would be any different, for indulging the pathetic little-kid urge to show off, look at me, look at what I did, like Platt not having a panic attack for a whole two weeks is a thing to be proud of. Like Platt’s done fuckall worth showing off about at this point. Like- what, his mom was going to look at him playing on the first line and having teammates act like they actually don’t hate being around him and go, _gee whiz, the last nineteen years of absenteeism were my bad!_

Platt hates her. Hates that he feels even that much for his stupid garbage mother, hates that he feels like he’s walking around outside of his body the whole way to the team hotel, hates that the only thing that really feels real is the familiar tensing all through his body, like it’s just waiting to spin out into panic even as he tries to squash the feeling down.

Not tonight, Platt orders himself, he’s not going to let this ruin his night, he’s _not_ , and he’s trying as hard as he’s ever tried at anything to convince himself of that during the ride to the hotel, and as the D&D group gathers in his and Darling’s room, and as there’s a knock at the door and then Platt has to step out of the way to avoid getting trampled as Joey Moore walks in and gets absolutely bombarded with hugs.

“Holy shit, look at you!”, “He lives!”, all this talking over each other as Platt watches his teammates swarm Joey, happy as Platt’s ever seen them. Even CJ’s smiling. Platt doesn’t know if he’s supposed to join in or awkwardly sixth wheel or what, but when the group hug breaks up, Joey makes a beeline straight for him.

“Joey Moore,” Platt says, standing up a little straighter. Trying to look less scowly. _Be normal_.

“Platt Sinclair,” Joey echoes, and turns Platt’s proffered fist bump into a masterfully executed fist bump-to-bro hug combo, because, right, he’s inexplicably nice too. He shoots Platt an easy grin. He’s got a few stitches on his chin, partially disguised in his terrible patchy stubble. Looks like the precise opposite of Darling’s eternally put-together aesthetic. “Man, you look taller than you do on camera!”

Confirmed: he’s Platt’s favourite.

“Wait, what?” Darling (who hasn’t left Joey’s side for a single second) asks, confused, and Platt has a whole new moment of panic – oh shit, Darling’s not supposed to know they’ve spoken – before Franklin steps in.

“Of course Joey watches our games,” he says, and even Darling wouldn’t mistrust Franklin, so he looks convinced even before Joey elbows him, all teasing.

“Wouldn’t miss ‘em,” he agrees, flinging an arm freely around Darling’s shoulders, and Platt gets to enjoy the sight of Darling losing the tiny fragment of chill he pretends to possess and visibly, like, melting into the touch. “Bet you guys _do_ miss my rogue skills, though.”

“Miss having someone to send into all the traps,” Mendoza makes like he’s going to trip him, and Joey clutches his heart with the arm not around Darling.

“Ceej,” he says, “CJ, defend me from these two, tell them rogues are badass and they _know_ it-”

And Platt just stands there, watches as his team meanders back into the room, all orbiting around Joey like a solar system as he jokes around, comfortable like he was never gone. He fits in perfectly. Which- of course he does. This was his spot first. His friends. Platt’s the one who fucked with that. Add it to the list.

Platt doesn’t notice that Franklin lingered in the doorway with him until he’s squeezing his hand.

“Are you okay?” Franklin asks, quiet, so none of the others will hear. He noticed Platt being weird. He always does, and he sounds so understanding and concerned, all for Platt, that this terrified little thing inside of Platt recoils instinctively, hissing and clawing and rearing up in panic. He orders it, firm, to shut up. It’s Franklin. He’s not like that. Platt’s been doing so good at not panicking. He’s not doing this tonight. Things have to be different now. He wants them to be different.

“Let’s just play, ‘kay?” he says, and if he doesn’t quite pull off airy and unbothered, he comes close enough that Franklin gives him a nod.

Platt just- he just needs to settle in, have fun tonight and forget whatever stupid embarrassing hope he was kindling before he got here. So what, he’s not going to get to do the family thing. He’s going to make fun of his roomie’s obvious crush, and he’s going to play D&D, and it doesn’t matter at all about his mom being a no-show or the guys preferring Joey or any of it. He’s _not_ panicking.

“I’m sorry, he named the bard _what_?” Joey’s laughing so hard he almost sprays them all with his drink. “Platt Sinclair, you absolute fuckin’ beauty.”

“You’re so gross,” Darling says, fond, swiping at Joey’s face with his sleeve – his love language is ‘mom’, apparently, _that’s_ gross – and Joey grins at him.

“Don’t start me, bro, I _will_ tell the potluck story, you know I will.”

“Well now you _gotta_ , Mooresy.”

It’s one of those nights where D&D feels mostly just like an excuse to hang out and talk. It’s pretty good, as an excuse for that. Even Franklin’s being less DM-zilla than usual, letting the boys and Joey meander into their terrible college stories without trying all that hard to get them back on track with character stuff. Not that it would probably work even if he did try, the way all the guys are hanging onto Joey’s every word like he’s the second fucking coming, and Platt has that thought, feels himself being mean, and then hates himself a little for it.

Not Joey’s fault everyone likes him better. Not like Platt was planning on sticking around anyways, he thinks, a little petulant, and he doesn’t know why the thought stings, feels so intrusive, but it does. Doesn’t stop.

He’s sitting right next to Franklin, their knees touching, and usually that would be enough to calm him, but it’s not, tonight. Platt’s thinking of maybe escaping to the bathroom or into the hall or somewhere where he can be alone and order himself to get a grip when the conversation veers toward the trade.

“Is it weird, being on a good team?” CJ asks, from where he’s commandeered the only armchair.

Joey, sprawled so he’s half in Darling’s lap with this easy familiarity, does that little shrug thing – oh, we’re first in the whole league by a mile, no biggie – but seems to genuinely consider his answer. “It’s been great here,” he says. “I mean, we’ve got basically three full first lines, which is incredible, like- you know, I could have the worst night of my life on the ice and it wouldn’t even matter, they’re that good, but they like what I bring anyways? Like, I don’t need to be the guy, I can just do my thing. It’s like-” He pauses, laughs at himself a little wistfully. “I was so worried about leaving you guys, but it kinda feels like I’m where I’m meant to be? Is that dumb?”

“This fuckin’ guy gets a whole team of all-stars and all we got going for us are two high schoolers,” Mendoza gripes, flicking popcorn in Platt and Franklin’s direction, and Franklin laughs along with the others while Platt tries for a grin. He’s just teasing. Platt's brain feels like static. React normal to the teasing, Sinclair.

Mendoza’s eyes soften. “Happy for you, Mooresy,” he says, all genuine, and Joey pats him on the back, dodges an affectionate flick to the back of the knee by CJ as he uses Darling’s knee to push himself up, heading for the minifridge to grab another drink.

“Anyone want anything?” he asks, and Platt joins the others in shaking their heads, and CJ and Mendoza are back to chirping the Stars, fine, whatever, because Platt’s eyes land on Darling. Platt watches Darling watch Joey walking away, shut his eyes for a long second, then stand up and walk right out of the room.

Platt just wants one fucking thing to go according to his plans.

“Get Moore,” he orders, and he doesn’t have time to see if Franklin even heard, he’s too busy getting to his feet and darting for the door. He looks both ways, little kid crossing the street style, only just in time to get a glimpse of Darling’s back as he disappears past the elevators and around the corner. He’s really booking it.

Platt raises his voice to call after him, obnoxiously loud in the empty hallway, “And you’re going where, exactly?”

“Not in the mood,” Darling says, and doesn’t stop walking away, even when Platt jogs up alongside him, footsteps thudding heavy on the carpet.

“What the fuck happened, I thought we decided you were going to tell him!”

“Yeah, well,” Darling looks and sounds like he just ate something bitter, and not ‘cause of the reminder of the margaritas. “You heard him. He’s where he’s meant to be.”

He’s so _stupid_. “You have to go back in there,” Platt says, grabbing at Darling’s arm to try and slow his pace. “You guys like each other, everyone likes you, this has to _work_ -”

“Not happening, Platt,” Darling says, yanking his arm free. He doesn’t even look properly annoyed with Platt, just sad, and Platt recognizes the expression on his face, the ‘run and hide’ glowing there like it’s written in neon. “I appreciate the support, I really do, but- I can’t do this to him.” His voice wavers as he turns and starts walking away again, faster than before.

Platt clenches his fists, standing there helplessly. Looks over his shoulder, desperate, because Franklin has to be coming with Joey, they’ll clear this whole stupid misunderstanding up, but there’s no sign of either of them.

It’s not going to work out, Platt realizes, then and there, with a sick kind of certainty. Darling and Joey are head over ass in love and they’re both good people and decent at hockey and none of it is going to matter, they’re just both going to stay sad no matter how unfair it is. And the thing is-

The thing is, some horrible, selfish part of Platt’s brain reminds him, it probably wouldn’t affect Platt at all. Darling just said it, he appreciates the support, he doesn’t even hate Platt hardly at all anymore. Not like Darling’s really been sabotaging him for a while. Platt could just leave it, take the win and take the incoming passes and forget the entire thing. He _should_ forget the entire thing. Only-

They deserve better. Joey and Darling deserve better than feeling scared, over something this good.

That’s the first thing Platt realizes. The second thing, following close on its heels as a new plan reorients itself in his mind, is: Darling’s going to fucking hate him.

“You know, I’m not even surprised,” Platt calls after him, going for the hail mary play. “Figures you’d be too spineless for this too, kind of impressive how you manage it even with that stick up your ass. Guess your loss is Moore’s gain, though.”

Halfway down the hall, maybe fifteen feet away from Platt, Darling hesitates.

“Maybe I’ll make a move, actually, he’s decent looking in person,” Platt lies, as disdainful as he can possibly sound. He moves closer, closing the gap. “Not great. At all. But decent.”

“Stay away from him,” Darling says, automatically, it sounds like.

“Ooh, scary,” Platt snorts, rolling his eyes. He keeps running his mouth. He’s good at making people hate his guts even on accident – when he’s trying, he’s basically unstoppable. “What, I’m supposed to believe you’re actually going to do something about it? After- how long has this been, literally years? Yeah, he’s probably ready for someone who actually knows how to go after what they want.”

“Stop,” Darling says, and he finally turns around a, ridiculously, looks more betrayed than angry as he glares down at Platt. _For his own good_ , Platt thinks. “Why are you doing this?”

“You think he’s a good kisser?” Platt presses, goes straight for the sore spots. “Think he’s good at anything else? I mean, you wouldn’t know that last part, I guess, but I bet I could find out pretty easy, I doubt that many people would be into someone like him-”

“Shut _up_ ,” Darling bursts out, and shoves Platt, hard enough that Platt has to stumble back to catch his balance, and he half worries that Franklin didn’t get the message or Joey isn’t going to agree to come and he’s just going to end up getting the shit kicked out of him by his liney, only when he looks up, braced for another hit, Darling’s just standing there, statue-still, visibly shaking like he’s holding himself back. He’s got that coldly furious look on his face again, the one Platt hasn’t seen from him in months.

“Everything the press said about you was right,” Darling says, and the words land inside Platt with a thud.

He knows what Darling thinks of him, now. Maybe what he thought all along.

Nothing new. None of tonight has been new.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Platt says, real nonchalant, and then he goes for the kill, thinks, _Franklin, please_. “But I guess telling’s not really your thing, huh?” He makes himself smirk, mean as he can. “Word of advice? The best thing you can do for Moore is get over him.”

Darling’s face twists. “I’m not going to _get over_ him,” he says, every word punched out clear as anything. “You don’t think I’ve tried? I’ve been in love with Joey Moore and only Joey Moore since we were sixteen years old, you narcissistic-”

“Mal?”

Darling freezes.

Platt watches Darling look over his shoulder to the hallway behind Platt; follows Darling’s deer in the headlights gaze and turns around to see Joey standing maybe ten feet back, lit up by the hotel fluorescents.

“You just said you love me,” Joey says. Even from this distance, Platt can see it as he swallows, hard. “Woah, you- you definitely just said that.”

To Darling’s credit, he makes an admirable attempt at his usual detached tone. “Is that a question?”

“No,” Joey says, still standing there, still not tearing his gaze away from Darling. “You said that. You said- you never said anything, after we kissed.”

Darling shoves his hands in his pockets. Mumbles, “Did you want me to?”

“Did I-” Joey breaks off, incredulous, and Platt doesn’t know him well enough to know if that’s a good or bad sign. _Please_ , he thinks, _please, just-_

“Joey,” Darling says, hoarse, “I’m so sor-”

All the scouting reports Platt read about Joey Moore after the trade, all the lists of everything he did better than Platt, all of them talked about Joey’s singlemindedness, his determination. Platt sees it now, firsthand, because Joey strides right past him like Platt’s not even there, grabs Darling by the front of his shirt, and kisses him.

Platt laughs out loud, then claps a hand over his mouth, quick. Shouldn’t have worried: neither of the others so much as looks at him.

“You dumbass,” Joey says, half against Darling’s lips, and the look on his face as he looks at Darling is so much in love that Platt feels kind of like a peeping tom. “I’ve had a crush on you for so long and I thought I freaked you out when we kissed, I thought you thought I was so fucking off-base-”

“I thought you thought _I_ was off-base,” Darling says, and his voice cracks, and it takes everything that Platt has not to laugh again. “You didn’t say anything, I don’t want to lose you, Joe, I can’t-”

“You’re not going to lose me,” Joey urges. He sounds near tears. “There’s nothing- you’re never going to lose me, Mal, I’m-”

And Darling kisses _him_ , then, which seems as conclusive an agreement as any, and it’s honestly almost heartwarming, and then the kissing is going on long enough that Platt really does feel like a peeping tom.

“...Well,” he announces. “I’m just going to. Go.”

For whatever it’s worth, the statement is ignored entirely. Darling’s, like, climbing Moore, right here in front of Platt and god and everyone, and Platt very much does not want to be here to witness any more of _that_ from his liney-slash-roommate, so he backs off, retreats slowly around the corner and nearly bumps right into Franklin, who’s hidden by the elevators and practically jumping up and down with anticipation, which is so deeply adorable it shouldn’t be allowed.

“I dragged Joey outside but I wasn’t sure if I was too late,” he whispers, all the words spilling out at once. “What did you do? What happened, are they- did it work?”

“Uh, judging from how they’re literally making out in the middle of the hall, I’m going to say yes,” Platt says. It does not stop Franklin’s frantic hopping, just turns it to excited hopping. Still adorable.

“Platt!” He sounds _thrilled_ , completely and totally, and Platt-

Platt feels like he’s going to explode, maybe. His heart’s racing like he just played an entire OT, all these conflicted feelings crashing into each other at high speed, because he was already on the verge of losing it tonight even before he fucked up the entire plan. And that’s what he did, he realizes, he knowingly, on purpose made Darling furious with him, _everything they write about you is true_ , and he’s never going to want to give Platt the puck again which means that Platt just ruined half a season’s worth of planning and fucked himself over for this year and probably the next, too, but he also helped Darling get together with his Joey and they both looked so happy and so does Franklin and Platt finds himself smiling anyhow, maybe mostly so Franklin won’t stop.

“I know.”

“I can’t believe it worked!”

“I _know_ ,” Platt agrees, and it comes out less certain than he means it to, still a little tightly wound, so he adds, all deadpan, “Also, they’re fully definitely about to fuck, we should _go_ -”

“Oh my gosh.”

Platt laughs out loud at the scandalized look on Franklin’s face – not like Darling and Moore would care even if they were capable of noticing anything other than each other right now – then, impulsive, grabs Franklin’s wrist and pulls him along down the hall ‘til they’re both running, hand in hand and giggling like a pair of losers. Maybe, Platt thinks, half-crazed, maybe they just run right out of the hotel and out of Dallas and Platt doesn’t have to think about anything except Franklin ever again, the end.

Franklin shuts the door to his room behind him once they’re in, leaning back against it and laughing, his hand still in Platt’s. “They’re totally- they’re totally going to forget all the guys are waiting back in your and Sweetie’s room, Platt.”

And the idea of the looks on Mendoza and CJ’s faces when Darling and Joey walk in mid-makeout is so ridiculous that Platt can’t not laugh as well, giddy so that laughing almost feels like how crying feels. His mom didn’t show and his team wishes he was the guy he got traded for and Darling thinks he’s a piece of shit and he probably just blew up the whole plan and maybe the rest of his career, but he’s also got Franklin smiling at him the way he is now, his fingers still looped loosely around Platt’s wrist, and Platt is _feeling_ and he doesn’t even know what, out of breath for no reason at all.

“Are they happy?” Franklin asks, eager, his eyes boring into Platt’s. “Did they look so happy?”

“ _So_ happy, Franklin,” Platt nods, and doesn’t even hesitate, because he knows it’ll make Franklin beam, and it does, because all Franklin ever wants is for his friends to be happy, he’s so _good_ , it’s so much.

Overcome, Platt tugs his hand free from Franklin’s grasp, makes his way into the room and falls flat-out onto Franklin’s bed, crumpling the untouched duvet under him. He doesn’t have to ask for Franklin to come lie next to him this time, or to come closer after that – Platt reaches out, automatic, and Franklin wraps his ridiculous long limbs around him, gives a satisfied little hum once they’re tangled up with each other.

Platt might be clinging too tight. Franklin doesn’t complain.

Slowly, a breath at a time, Platt relaxes against him. Can’t help it – nothing bad can happen as long as it’s the two of them. Franklin, Platt doesn’t have to question. It’s okay. He can be okay.

“You’re good for snuggling,” Platt says. Even sounds normal, or Franklin-normal, at least.

“I like snuggling,” Franklin says, simple.

“I figured, yeah,” Platt says, and the general ridiculousness of the situation hits him again, and he’s laughing all over again, just losing his mind.

Franklin sounds like he’s stifling a giggle. “What does that mean?”

“Means you’re a fucking care bear, Franklin,” Platt says, and Franklin gets Platt’s favourite _oh yeah?_ look on his face, reaches and matter-of-factly tugs Platt’s hood down over his face while Platt tries and fails to squirm away, laughing even harder.

“Acts all nice but he’s trying to fucking suffocate me, I can’t even-”

Franklin cracks instantly. “Hold on, hold on, let me-”

Platt does as he’s told, holds still as Franklin very carefully frees him from the tangled mess that is his hoodie, which takes far longer than it really should, they’re both so giggly. They end up, eventually, sitting face-to-face, Franklin’s legs splayed out like when he’s doing his pre-game stretches, Platt sitting cross-legged between them. Close enough for Franklin to reach up and pull Platt’s hood back, just enough for Platt to be able to see again.

“There,” Franklin declares, and starts giggling all over again the second their eyes meet.

“What?” Platt asks, shoving at Franklin’s stomach.

“Your hair is very messed up.”

“Oh, wow, I wonder why, maybe ‘cause of the feral goalie who just attacked me,” Platt pretend-gripes, fighting a smile as Franklin drops his head onto his shoulder, shaking with laughter. “Don’t _laugh_.”

“It’s the most supportive laughing possible,” Franklin reassures, barely getting the words out, he’s laughing that hard, and it’s impossible the way things frequently are with him, because getting laughed at is Platt’s least favourite thing in the world, he hates it, but from Franklin it feels like some kind of gift, this special thing that makes Platt feel proud every time he hears it.

“Oh is it, it’s supportive laughing?”

“Definitely, yes,” Franklin says, and when he lifts his head, his eyes are so big and beautiful and fond that Platt feels like he’s going to combust at the eye contact.

“I’m so glad, for that,” he manages to say, and Franklin’s smile gets bigger. They’re sitting real close. Close even for the two of them.

“For the support?”

“Yeah, that,” Platt nods, and the ‘that’ only comes out a little cut off when his breath catches as Franklin’s fingers brush against his hair.

“Good,” Franklin says. Simple.

“Good,” Platt echoes. He leans in, just the littlest bit, and Franklin copies. Their foreheads touch, and stay touching. Franklin’s hair tickles Platt’s skin, his breath warms Platt’s lips. Platt’s hood makes a little cavern around the both of them, lights dim, their own world.

For the first time since landing in Dallas earlier, Platt’s doesn’t feel anxious. Nothing even close. This is where things work out. This, he won’t fuck up. He can do this.

“Kind of thinking about going for the kiss now,” he says. Casual.

“Gosh,” Franklin says, and he’s doing a pretty good job at sounding normal, but Platt hears the matching thrill of anticipation in his voice, sees the way his fingers twitch where they’re resting by Platt’s thigh. “With anyone in particular?”

They share this breathless little laugh again, like an inside joke.

“I got some ideas,” Platt says.

“Yeah?”

Platt nods, and the movement nudges his nose against Franklin’s. “A few, yeah.”

And they do this little, like, sway together, like testing, and Platt watches Franklin’s eyes flutter closed, and then their noses brush again and Platt doesn’t know which of them kisses the other first but they do, he does, and there’s that initial moment of hesitation that comes with a first kiss, with the technicality of touching your mouth to another person’s and trying to make it good, and then it just _is_ good.

Franklin’s lips are warm against his. Platt never in his life thought anyone would kiss him as softly and carefully as Franklin’s kissing him now. Never thought he’d be capable of doing the same.

“Oh,” Franklin says, once Platt breaks off to catch his breath. His voice comes out all faint, he’s blinking a bunch of times. His adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “Wow.”

Platt finds himself grinning, so big his face kind of hurts. It’s a nice view, the nicest, Franklin rumpled and freshly kissed in front of him, because of him, his pupils blown big and an out-of-place lock of his curls skimming his right eyebrow.

“You’re so cute,” Platt tells him. He can practically _hear_ himself smiling.

Franklin looks at him and gets this glint in his eyes, almost the same intensity Platt’s seen there during games, and then, no hesitation at all, he wraps his hand around Platt’s hoodie strings, pulls Platt in, and kisses him, and this kiss- this one’s not careful at all. Which- okay, Platt’s not easy to move, but Franklin does it like it’s nothing, like he’s _confident_ , and so ‘cute’ and even ‘adorable’ are perhaps not so much the words Platt wants here as much as ‘painfully scorchingly hot, holy fuck’.

Platt makes a deeply embarrassing sound in his throat, so into it he can’t even remember to cringe at himself. Franklin seems intent on putting him where he wants him, and Platt goes with it, lets himself be tugged close ‘til he’s half in Franklin’s lap and then pushes just enough that Franklin falls back onto the bed and Platt can hold himself over him, can brace his elbows on either side of Franklin’s head and give as good as he gets. He finds a spot Franklin must’ve missed shaving, a rough little patch at the underside of his jaw, and puts his mouth to it, feels Franklin shiver at Platt’s lips on his neck.

 _More_ , Platt’s thinking, greedy, _more_ and _Franklin_ and their legs slot together as they shift and Platt realizes with a thrill that he can feel Franklin getting hard against his thigh, and it’s just, like, the single hottest thing in the entire world, Platt feels physically dizzy, how hot that is, and not like he’s the _most_ experienced with this stuff or even really honestly experienced mostly at all, but he’s pretty sure this would be that hot even if he was. Platt’s not sure if he expected Franklin to be shy or what, but he’s _not_ , the way he’s got his tongue nudging into Platt’s mouth and making him feel weak in the knees, his hands roaming up and down on Platt’s back like he knows what he’s doing and Platt wants to let him do it, whatever and however much he wants.

Platt didn’t even know he could feel this way about someone. He never wants to stop. How did he think this would be scary?

“I got-” he starts, pulling back just enough to speak, and Franklin follows, leaning up to kiss Platt again even though it must be kind of an ab workout, angle he’s holding himself, and Platt gets distracted all over again, has to snap himself out of it before he can get lost in him more. “I got a _plan_ , Franklin,” he announces.

“I think we did the plan,” Franklin says, falling back onto the pillow, his hair splayed out under him as he squeezes Platt’s hip. “I think the plan was a success, Platt.”

Platt shakes his head. “A different plan,” he says, the idea brewing itself up in his mind as he talks. “I’m coming up on free agency, right? So I can go, like, wherever I want, if I don’t take my qualifying or hold out or whatever, but you still have a year left on your contract.” He leans down, resting on his forearms so he can touch his nose to Franklin’s again, crinkling his own up, goofy. “So here’s what we do, okay, you request a trade over summer, some contender with nothing in net wants you, then wherever they send you, I’ll just sign there.”

He finishes with relish, with a smile he can’t hold back, at the idea of him and Franklin together, taking the league by storm. Sinclair and Nahmoud. No worrying about anything. And Franklin’s still smiling too, way he was before, the expression lingering on his face, but the little crease has appeared between his brows again, the one that means he’s thinking.

“You’re serious?” he asks, after a second, like he thinks maybe Platt’s not.

“Yeah, I’m serious,” Platt says, eager. “You and me, fuck everything else.”

Everything Franklin ever feels shows on his face, in his eyes, and this is no exception to the rule. The exception is this time, Platt can’t quite translate the feeling he sees there. It changes the look on Franklin’s face, even as Platt’s watching. Becomes something complicated; not a smile, not anymore.

“Let me up, please,” Franklin says, and he sounds- he sounds calm as anything, perfectly calm and restrained and polite, which isn’t how he sounded or looked or felt a minute ago.

Platt does as he’s told. Watches Franklin sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed and just sit there, his back to Platt.

Platt keeps watching. Franklin keeps sitting.

Platt kind of wants to laugh, just to fill the quiet.

He could almost miss it, if the room weren’t so church-at-a-funeral silent around them: Franklin makes this tiny little sound, muffled like he’s trying to hide it. Platt hears it anyways. Sees it, too, when he scoots a little closer on the bed, but it doesn’t make any sense, though, because it looks and sounds like-

“Are you crying?” Platt asks, floored, and Franklin’s shoulders go all tight like he thinks Platt’s about to give him shit, which he wasn’t, at all, he’s just- he doesn’t know what happened, they were so happy, just now. “Don’t be sad, Frankie, why-”

“I’m not sad,” Franklin says, and Platt’s startled enough by Franklin interrupting that it takes him a moment to realize that he’s telling the truth, ‘cause Franklin’s got a big tear sitting shiny and alone on his cheek, a hitch to his voice, but he mostly just looks pissed. “I’m upset. With you.”

“I’m not _that_ bad at kissing,” Platt tries to joke, because he doesn’t know what else to do, and Franklin shakes his head, still staring at the ground.

“It’s not because of the kissing.”

“Then what?”

Franklin turns his head to look at Platt, finally, staring right into his eyes, and it’s searching, scanning, then – Platt’s stomach drops – _disappointed_ , like whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find. “Even after everything,” Franklin says, and he sounds surprised. “None of this matters to you.”

“You matter,” Platt says. Means it. Of course he means it, and that should be enough to make Franklin smile and get all blushy again, but it isn’t.

“Do I?” Franklin asks, eyes still oddly piercing as they bore into Platt’s, even as another tear makes a path down his cheek. “Because you kind of just asked me to leave all our friends and our team and our home, so the words are maybe a little bit-”

Platt feels himself tensing up, feels his breath catch. Tries, _wills_ himself to shake it off. “I didn’t actually-”

“I asked if you meant it.”

“Yeah, well,” Platt says, lamely. He feels stung, lit into by Franklin’s words even as he tries not to be. He didn’t see this coming. How did he stop seeing this coming? He can’t- this doesn’t make _sense_ , they were finally kissing, Platt finally got brave enough to do something about this the way he thought Franklin wanted him to, and he can’t make it click in his head that they’ve somehow gotten from there to the way Franklin’s looking at him now, and it’s not like Platt’s not used to being looked at like that, but not by him. Not by Franklin.

Platt feels stupid, caught-out, the rest of today and tonight pressing in where it’s not welcome, eating away at whatever last little bit of happy was lingering inside him, and it’s that, that ravenous little curl of humiliation inside him, that makes him say, mean, “Whatever, you think I like getting dragged down by a team that can’t win me anything and is probably going to be half in the AHL next year, that’s not- like, these people aren’t my problem.”

The words sound ugly coming out. They _feel_ ugly coming out, which is just incredibly stupid, because they’re true, the Flames aren’t a good team and Platt hates being dragged down by them and that shouldn’t feel like a lie, thinking that, because it’s objectively the truth and Platt knows it, or- or he knew it, he thought he knew-

“You said you were happy here,” Franklin says. “I thought that meant you would stay.”

And _that_ -

It was bad when it didn’t make sense. It’s ten million times worse now, like Franklin’s words send something clicking into place, and Platt’s lungs feel like they’re caught in a vise.

 _Of course,_ he thinks.

“Is that why you were nice to me?” he asks. He tries to make it accusatory, but it just comes out small. “To get me to like it here so I’d sign after the season?”

“What?” Franklin blinks, seems to momentarily forget that he was being upset in favour of looking utterly confused. “No, of course I wanted you to stay, but that’s not why I was-”

Platt isn’t listening. Hasn’t really been in a while, and he doesn’t mean to be tucking his legs in close to his chest, but he is, folding in on himself on autopilot, trying to make his lungs remember to breathe through the upswell of panic as his brain clicks the pieces together. It makes _sense_ , it makes all the sense in the world, is the thing, because he _knew_ , he’s known since day fucking one that Franklin was too good to be true. And- and Franklin told Platt himself, didn’t he, one of the first things he ever said after Platt arrived was how much he loves this team. And why else would he ever have befriended Platt, if not to try and keep the only other semi-decent player on his team? Why else would he have kept inviting Platt to terrible team building games and letting him sleep over? Platt’s the guy who fucks up everything he touches and gets yelled at by people wearing his dad’s number. He’s never once been the guy to get invited to stuff. Never the guy who gets the guy like Franklin.

 _Breathe_ , he orders himself, furious and humiliated in the parts of his brain that are still functional enough to feel anything but terrified. _Breathe normal, you’re just making it worse, you’re spiralling again, you stupid fucking-_

“Platt?” Franklin says. He sounds concerned instead of angry now, which just makes Platt feel worse, being pitied. “That’s not at all what this is, I don’t- how can you think that I-”

“Fuck this,” Platt manages to say. “Fucking-”

“I don’t think you’re hearing what I’m really trying to say-”

He doesn’t mean to be halfway to shouting, but he is. “You’re saying you’re mad at me ‘cause I won’t stay, that’s what you’re-”

“I’m saying I’m upset at you because you’re looking for reasons to leave, Platt!” Franklin says, and he’s not quite as loud as Platt, but he’s not quiet, either. He sounds more frustrated than anything else; looks on the verge of crying all over again. “From the first day you got here, all you’ve been doing is planning how to leave, apparently, so-”

“I’m planning how to be _better_ ,” Platt insists, his voice catching in his throat. “We’re basically last in the league, that’s not good enough, I need to be better, I need to go somewhere I can be better. You _know_ that.”

“Where?” Franklin asks, and Platt falters, thrown off by the question.

“I- what do you mean, where?”

Franklin pauses before he speaks, and when he does, he sounds controlled, real consciously careful. “Where is it that you want to go, exactly, that’s better?”

Platt laughs, humourless, still short of breath. “You think nowhere’s better than Calgary, Alberta, Canada, Franklin, because I got some news for you-”

“No, I think...” He breathes out in a puff.

“What?” Platt asks, when the quiet stretches out. Franklin just shakes his head, squeezes his eyes closed.

“Nothing.”

“Say what you want to say,” Platt says, somewhere between a dare and a plea, recognizing the hesitation Franklin always has when he thinks he’s being less-than-likeable. He hasn’t had it with Platt in a while. “Just say it, we say the truth to each other, that’s what we do.”

Franklin looks at him, hard, and it’s like Platt can physically see him fighting the urge to default to _shut up and be nice_ , working up the courage to say something mean. “I think expecting yourself to magically be better is a waste of time,” Franklin says, finally, evidently landing on bravery. “I think that as long as there’s a teammate or reporter or loud fanbase to blame, you don’t have to do any of the actual work of being invested in _making_ things better, or in seeing that they’re good already.” And he can maybe see Platt shutting down at that, physically pulling away, because he reaches out, lays a hand on Platt’s knee. “Please, just let me- you’re saying that you on this team was never going to work because we’re bad. But it didn’t work in Dallas because they were _good_ and you didn’t get played higher in the lineup than established players. So what-”

“All they did was compare me,” Platt says, defensive, but Franklin doesn’t give up.

“They do that here too,” he says, all urgent. “And Platt, it’s not fair, but they’ll do that wherever you play next, too, and presumably wherever you play next will be either a good or bad team as well, same as the last two, so I just can’t understand why you think that there would be any different than-”

“I take it back, stop talking,” Platt snaps, jerking his leg out of Franklin’s reach. He can’t- after everything today and tonight and this season, he can’t do this as well, Franklin telling him that he thinks Platt’s been the problem all along, ‘cause that’s basically what he’s saying, like Platt’s the one who made everyone he’s ever met want him to be someone a million times better than he is and inevitably find the real thing disappointing. Like Franklin could ever know what that’s like.

“You agreed to do the plan to help me leave,” Platt flings the accusation at him, sharpened to a jagged edge with fear. “That’s all this has been literally this whole time.”

Franklin flinches, wavers, but tries again. “I know,” he says, “I know, I suppose I just thought that-”

“Well, you supposed wrong,” Platt cuts him off, loud, the betrayal that’s been wrapping around his insides all night pulled to a choking point. “Sorry to disappoint, you probably should’ve seen this coming before investing all that time in trying to get me to stay. But, hey, making friends isn’t your forte, I guess.”

It’s like watching in slow motion, then, as everything mean and unlikeable and inevitable that Platt’s been swallowing down for months comes out all at once, all pointed directly at Franklin. Platt sees every single millisecond of it, as Franklin goes from on the verge of arguing again to hearing Platt’s last sentence and just- crumpling.

 _Oh no_ , Platt thinks, _oh no oh no oh no-_

All the fire’s out of Franklin like it was never there at all. He looks mortified, like he wants nothing more than to hide.

“Oh,” he says, very, very quietly. Not like he’s saying it to Platt. Like the kind of sound someone makes when you suckerpunched all the wind right out of their lungs.

Platt said it to hurt him, intentional and targeted the way you can only hurt someone you really know, and he did what he wanted to do and now all he wants, even as his blood’s still boiling angry, is to apologize, to beg Franklin to hug him again and rewind to the kissing or maybe even to before the team even landed in Texas, back before everything blew up in Platt’s face. Before _he_ blew it up in his own face.

And it’s then, right, as they’re sitting there in this horrible stunned silence, Franklin staring at the floor, that some terrible, cowardly part of Platt feels _relief_. He knew he was going to ruin this. Franklin is the best thing that ever happened to him and he was always going to disappoint him too and now it’s happened and that’s that.

He watches Franklin blink, hard. Watches him try and fail at not crying.

“My mistake,” Franklin says, in that same tiny voice.

“Yeah, it was,” Platt says, not much bigger, and this time, Franklin doesn’t reach out to stop him when he runs away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- warnings for a major disappointment/upheaval serving as a trigger for a character to panic and exhibit self-sabotaging behaviours and some anxiety-induced paranoia


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -content warning in this chapter's end notes

Whatever ghost of a hint of relief Platt was feeling is mostly worn off by the time he’s back at his room.

He only realizes as he’s opening the door that he forgot about Darling and Moore, and the absolute goddamn last thing Platt needs right now is to walk in on his liney and trade partner naked, but it doesn’t end up mattering because they aren’t there, naked or otherwise, because of course Darling would pick now to start being a considerate roommate.

Finally alone in the cookie-cutter hotel room, Platt tries to take a breath, and it comes out like a sob, shuddering and horrible.

It’s happening again, his body’s stupid panic thing, and he knows that and it doesn’t make it any less awful and humiliating, not even eleven years in, not even with no one watching.

“Fuck,” he says, and _tries_ , he tries to just function through it, to shower and brush his teeth and get ready for bed ‘cause tomorrow’s a game day and he needs to sleep to perform well, but he only gets through one of those steps because the drops tapping onto the shower floor make him feel like his head is about to explode and Platt has to shut the water off and curl up on the paper-thin bathmat, wrapped up in the scratchy towel and shivering, only partly because of the cold. He feels- he’s gripping his legs so tightly, knees to his chest, that he can feel his nails digging into the skin; feels like if he doesn’t he’s going to fly apart into pieces.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, every worst thought replaying on a loop, helpless to stop them. He knew this was going to happen, it always happens like this, he’s a cancer in the room and an apple so far from the tree it’s rotted into nothing and he fucked up kissing Franklin by saying all those mean things and he fucked up his mom and dad’s relationship by showing up and reminding them why they broke up in the first place and even the teammates who tolerate him as a shitty replacement for a guy they actually like are going to realize what a mistake that is ‘cause they’ve got a game tomorrow and Platt’s probably going to fuck that up too since he can’t even be stressed like a normal person without his body deciding to try and strangle him from the inside out.

At least he’s alone, he thinks, sometime later, somewhere in his head, after he’s managed to take two consecutive normal breaths. At least no one’s seeing him like this, at least that.

Platt doesn’t hear the door to their room unlock. Does, though, see it when Darling strolls in and pauses in the open bathroom doorway, giving Platt a good long look at the massive hickey on his neck, and – Platt notes disdainfully – the fact that his terrible, preppy-ass polo shirt is inside out.

“Oh, sorry,” Darling says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “I would’ve knocked, but I wanted to talk to you, actually, so this is…” He seems to process for the first time, finally, the fact that Platt is on the floor and naked and halfway to being in the fetal position. “...why are you on the floor?”

“Go away,” Platt rasps.

“Are you alr-”

“Go _away_ ,” Platt says again, and Darling can’t even be less of a pain in Platt’s ass for one single second, because instead of doing as he’s told, he tils the door and takes a seat by the sink, just across from where Platt’s huddled next to the shower.

Darling’s looking at him, sort of curiously. Sort of judgemental, too, but that also might just be his face. He doesn’t say what Platt’s expecting him to.

“Joey told me you’ve been talking to him,” he says, so normal it’s almost surreal. “Told me you were trying to encourage him to make a move, like, all season.”

Platt doesn’t want to think about the stupid plan right now. “If you’re going to yell at me for going behind your back to get you laid, Darling, I’m not in the fucking mood tonight, alright?” he says, curling tighter into his little ball, arms around his knees, except Darling doesn’t yell at him.

Darling says, “Thanks”; then, without Platt even goading him on, continues, “I know I didn’t give you a fair shot after the trade.” No shit. “For like, a pretty decently long while after the trade, actually, but- tonight, when Joey and I finally got around to- uh, talking-”

“Ew,” Platt mumbles.

“He said you were kind of talking me up,” Darling says, undeterred. “He said you and Frankie were nudging him to make a move all season, and I don’t even want to attempt to fathom what kind of deeply misguided gremlin impulse led you to do that, but I wouldn’t have said anything to him without you. So… thanks.”

Platt laughs, miserable. This is what he wanted. This is exactly what he wanted, and he’s got it, and it feels like shit.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” he says, vindictive on purpose. “I didn’t do it for _you_ , I did it for my plan so that you’d start giving me the puck so that I could rack up points and get the hell out of here and fuck over your team and your campaign and everything, and you all fell for it, hook, line, and sinker, so who really looks stupid here?”

He finishes loud, his voice echoing on the tile when he does.

Darling looks down at himself and his stupid backwards polo, and then over at Platt, who, fine, is very much naked except for the towel wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, his hair wet and his horrifying quantity of freckles on full display.

“It’s you,” Platt says, just so they’re both very clear, here. “You look stupid.”

“Fuck you, Sinclair,” Darling says.

“Fuck you, Darling,” Platt retorts, and that’s Darling’s cue to storm out and bail on the conversation the way he always does, but he just keeps _staring_. He honestly looks kind of bemused, like Platt said something funny.

“What?” Platt snaps, irritable. His voice comes out elastic-taut.

“Your argument here is that you haven’t gotten attached to any of us, not any of the boys, not Frankie, it’s all been part of your big evil selfish scheme?” Darling asks, one eyebrow raised just so.

“Yeah, that’s my argument,” Platt says, defiant.

Darling’s other eyebrow lifts up to join its twin. “You’re a good actor, then,” he says, mild as anything. “Not great at planning, though, considering that you didn’t actually attempt to take any credit for getting us together tonight. I was pretty angry with you, honestly. Wouldn’t have even known you were trying to be helpful if Joey hadn’t put it together and told me. Definitely wouldn’t have been trying to pass you the puck more than usual.” He tilts his head at Platt, all smug. “Almost like you forgot your convoluted plan and just genuinely wanted me to be happy.”

Like Platt needed to be mocked tonight. Like that was what Darling decided would be the cherry on top of the cake made of absolute shit that life has decided to serve Platt.

“You know what I’m definitely not attached to, is when my roommate who hates me has sex one time and decides to start giving me advice as if I asked,” Platt lashes out mostly wildly, trying his absolute best to provoke Darling, to get him to leave him here alone to be miserable in peace, but it doesn’t _work_.

“I don’t actually think I hate you anymore,” is all Darling says, thoughtful. “I kind of don’t even mind having you around.” Then, surprised, “Huh.”

Platt eyes him, bracing for whatever insult Darling’s been building up to. “What?”

“Is this what having a little brother is like?” Darling asks. He makes a face at that concept, the one normal thing he’s done this whole time. “Ew.”

And Platt just- he can’t deal with that tonight, not even a little, not even if Darling didn’t look like he was being sincere, which he does. Platt can’t, at least not without crying or something humiliating like that, so he just leans on the edge of the shower, scrunches in tight as he can on himself so he’s fully turned away from Darling. He’s _tired_. He’s just tired.

For a while, neither of them speaks.

Darling stretches out his legs. “Maybe I do look stupid,” he says, more serious than before. He’s got four years on Platt, almost. Sounds it, now, for once. “But I look stupid after getting to play a game with all my friends for a living, and getting to tell my favourite person that I’ve been in love with him for years, and Monday night, we’re all going to slay an imaginary monster together.”

He laughs, quiet. To himself, it sounds like. “If I’m going to look stupid, at least I get all that,” he finishes. Then, because he’s still Malcolm Darling, “And at least my name’s not fucking Platt.”

Platt doesn’t look at him. Just stays where he is, doesn’t move a muscle, even after Darling finally leaves him alone.

He breathes out through his teeth, the only thing that breaks the silence.

\---

Just in case Darling was expecting his Miracle On Ice bathroom speech about the power of friendship or brotherhood or whatever to rescue them from the reality that they’re a garbage team in the middle of a rebuild, they get their asses firmly and decisively handed to them by the Stars the next day.

“Ah, fuck,” Coach says after the six-nothing goal, switches to cursing in Swedish as he finally waves Franklin out of the net. “Toivy, you’re in.”

Platt’s not the only one avoiding Franklin’s gaze as he skates over. Franklin doesn’t say anything to the guys’ sympathetic taps on his pads, doesn’t so much as glance in Platt’s direction as he slumps into the backup spot, staring at his feet. And something about that sight, Franklin sitting there all forlorn in a ballcap that he doesn’t deserve to be wearing-

The situation is: Platt’s running on approximately two hours of sleep, feels like he’s sleepwalking and knows he looks like it too, since Coach asked if he was alright before the game, Mendoza’s been giving him concerned looks from down the bench. And Platt knows by now how it feels when he’s panicking so he knows that that’s what this is, but it doesn’t normally last this long, he’s supposed to go back to feeling normal levels of stressed after maybe half an hour or an hour, max. And it’s not- he’s not _as_ bad as he was last night, since he managed to make it here and play two periods, but it’s still happening, he can feel it happening.

It was supposed to be good. He just for fucking once wants things to be good, and Franklin is sitting there looking miserable and the Dallas crowd is loud and celebratory and his dad’s number is hanging up near all the cup banners, a larger than life seventy-two with _SINCLAIR_ over the numbers in even larger print, and Platt can’t stop his hands from shaking but he can, he decides, stop this. He’s going to.

“Go to the net,” he says, next shift, and Darling, steely-eyed and determined, gives him a nod that Mendoza mirrors.

They’re on the board within a minute.

It’s Sinclair hockey, is what it is. Platt doesn’t stop for breath the entire rest of the period, doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to, not that it matters, because he and his line are playing the way hockey’s supposed to be, like a fuck you to everyone who thought they couldn’t. Both Platt’s lineys score twice after Platt’s goal, five goals in thirteen minutes, breaking the Stars’ lead down to one.

 _You traded me,_ he wants to scream _, you got rid of me, and fucking look at me now, look how wrong you were, look how much I could’ve deserved better._

 _Look at me now_ , he thinks at Franklin, and Franklin doesn’t, but maybe if Platt gets one more-

One more-

 _One more_ , Platt thinks, or maybe feels like a pulse, _one more, one more,_ and he can’t tell if it’s a mantra or his brain doing one of its panic loops again, not that it matters, not that it _can_ matter, because Platt just has to focus, and if he can just do this, this one good thing, maybe-

The clock runs out.

Platt drops to a knee on the ice as the buzzer sounds.

He feels drained in a way he can’t remember being before, even as the tension is still pounding through him, his muscles tight like he’s mid-electric shock.

They lost. He lost. He wasn’t enough.

Of course.

It’s only the knowledge of how many people are surely watching this, of how Platt would bet everything he has that the cameras are either on him or his dad in the crowd – his dad would’ve won – that makes Platt get up and skate off the ice.

He shoves his way past his teammates, pushing to the front of the group to try and get to the locker room. Thinks he’s getting shoved back, at first, before realizing that what he thought was a shove was just Mendoza patting him on the back, like _there, there_ , and Darling bumping their shoulders together, and even Wahlstrom giving him an approving nod, “One hell of an effort, Platt.”

Platt’s head spins.

He doesn’t _understand_. He wasn’t enough, they lost, he didn’t prove them that he was worth trading for, and they’re all being nice to him still.

 _Friends_ , Darling said, _brothers_ , and Platt shakes his head, hard, and sees stars – he needs _sleep_ – because that doesn’t make sense, he thought- Franklin got mad at him and he thought that was it, and Darling got mad at him and he thought _that_ was it, and for some reason this team is still acting like Platt’s not a piece of garbage, and Platt can’t rationalize that at all.

He doesn’t realize he’s stopped moving ‘til Darling’s prodding at his back.

“Sinclair?” Darling asks, in this tone like he doesn’t know whether to be annoyed or concerned, and Platt wheels around to look at him, horrified at himself. Franklin’s there too, everyone’s there, and all of them are looking right at him.

Platt’s breath falters in his throat, feels like it’s strangling him.

“What’s the holdup?” one of the guys asked, because the whole team is stuck out in the hall, Platt frozen in the doorway to the visitor’s room, and he can’t move, he can’t _breathe_.

 _Not here_ , he thinks, _please, no_ , and it doesn’t help at all.

“I need to leave,” he grits out, folding his arms into his chest automatically even as it feels like he’s getting crushed in a vise by all his gear, and he doesn’t want to know what kind of freak he looks like, because Darling’s blinking at him and he doesn’t even look irritable anymore.

“Woah,” he says, eyes wide. “Are you okay, what’s-”

“I need to _leave_ ,” Platt snaps, desperate, and tries to shove past the crowd to get out, anywhere but here, only the movement washes over him in a wave of nausea and he stumbles, all the blood rushing to his head.

Next time he opens his eyes – when the hell did he close them? – the world’s tilted, and louder than before. Platt blinks, puts together a piece of truth at a time that he’s currently clutched against Franklin’s chest, Franklin supporting all of his weight and peering down at him with these huge, worried eyes, though he visibly closes off when Platt meets them; lets go real fast like maybe he caught Platt without meaning to.

“-think he just fainted-”

“Is he having, like, a heart attack or-”

Wahlstrom’s voice booms out, “Give him some room, doc’s on his way-”

“No,” Platt tries to say, putting the pieces together and feeling dizzy all over again, because oh _god_ , did he black out and swoon like a girl in some terrible sexist movie? In front of his team? This doesn’t happen, this cannot be happening to him.

 _On a gameday_ , _too,_ his brain reminds him, and his heartrate kicks into a whole new gear, because holy shit, there are reporters around, and they’re going to see this, and the thought of what they’re going to say about him, what they said last time he did this and didn’t even have a team relying on him, makes Platt physically curl in on himself, shuddering, _no no no please_ \- “No, I’m- I’m fine, I already did this yesterday, it’s done, it’s done, I’m not-”

He’s sitting on the floor, somehow, and then Mendoza is the one to grip his shoulders and duck into his line of sight. “Hey,” he says, in this calm voice, “Platt, you’re having a panic attack, that’s what this is.”

“No _shit_ ,” Platt snaps, because he knows he’s not dying, this isn’t his first rodeo, he’s _good_ at anxiety, or at least better than this at it, he’s supposed to be better- “I- I can’t- it’s not-” He chokes on the words, and then again when he tries to take a breath, and his heart is racing faster than it ever does during a game, pure animal fear as he realizes he can’t snap himself out of this. He reaches up, yanks hard at his chest protector, trying to get rid of some part of the strangling feeling. All it does is make it feel tighter.

“Okay,” Mendoza stills Platt’s hand, stopping him from pulling at himself more. The team is still talking in the background, a dozen voices that Platt can’t pick out. He doesn’t know where Franklin went. Doesn’t know if wants him here or not. He doesn’t know anything. “Okay, just- breathe a second, alright?”

“I _can’t,_ ” Platt says, and his voice breaks on a sob.

It doesn’t get worse from there, is the optimistic view of things.

It feels like slow motion, a little.

Platt knows this rink like the back of his hand. He used to spend half his nights here as a kid; he’d work on homework during warmups and ignore it as soon as the game started, too caught up in watching his dad way down on the ice. Number seventy-two was always ten times better than the next best guy out there, and it’s one of the first feelings Platt can remember in his life, the way the whole crowd would hold its breath every time the puck was on his dad’s stick, an entire building frozen in anticipation of the next great Ryan Sinclair play. More times than not, most every time, the intake of breath was let go with an explosive cheer, rattling the ground under Platt’s feet.

Platt missed out at some point, he thinks, on the letting go. Feels like he’s been holding one of those caught breaths inside himself for as long as he can remember, bottled up and pressurized and pushing at his ribs.

He knows this building. He knows it, is the point, so he knows where he’s headed, even in the middle of a full blown panic attack, when Coach and Mendoza herd him away from the rest of the team and into one of the empty trainers’ rooms a few halls out.

It’s an out of body kind of thing, like Platt’s there, but not. Slow motion.

 _Shit,_ he keeps thinking, on a loop, _what did I do, what did I **do**_ -

Wahlstrom leaves, but Mendoza stays sitting with Platt while the team doctor counts with Platt to ten, breathes with him a bunch, then, after a minute or ten or an hour, says all this smart sounding stuff in a purposefully calm voice.

“You’re safe, alright?” the doctor says, and Platt nods so he’ll stop expecting a better response.

He’s there, but not, and then, slowly, way it always goes, he’s there again, back in his skin.

The after is as bad as the during, almost.

His sweat is drying cold on the back of his neck, making his clothes stick to his skin. He can smell it, sharp and ugly. He goes to wipe off his face. His limbs feel heavy. He wishes he slept last night. Wishes he just stayed in his bed.

Wheels squeak from across the cramped little room, where Mendoza’s been sitting quietly on one of the rolling stools. Platt hasn’t moved from the not-at-all soft examination bed since the doctor left, just stays there and drinks the juice box he gave him to replenish his electrolytes. Platt thinks privately that if a fruit medley juice box is the professional help everyone’s been telling him to seek out, it’s pretty bullshit. That thought is how he knows he’s done panicking, for now. That, and how much he wants to lay down and sleep for maybe twenty-four hours straight.

He ruined everything. For sure, this time. For keeps.

Platt’s straw makes a horrible sound as he attempts to suck up the dregs of his juice. He winces.

Mendoza says, same calm voice as the doctor was using, “Know what my therapist told me?”

Platt does a double take at him. His therapist? Why would Mendoza have one of those?

Mendoza raises an eyebrow. Platt shakes his head.

“When we’re having any kind of panic attack, it’s our body making, like, adrenaline, ‘cause it thinks we’re in physical danger. Our brains make it think that.” _We_ , he says like he gets the panic thing too. Platt _stares_. Mendoza spins on his wheely stool, doesn’t quit talking. “So that’s the reason why we’re not in that state constantly, cause it’s exhausting, physically, even if you don’t try to play a full fuckin’ hockey game in the middle of it.”

Platt doesn’t know if that was a scolding or an attempt at support. He can’t decide which is worse. “They’re gonna trade me again,” he says, dully. With certainty. His voice still feels a little hoarse, like the words are still remembering how to come back.

“No one’s gonna trade you,” Mendoza says. “They didn’t trade me when I got help about my anxiety shit, why would they trade you?”

Platt can’t- his brain isn’t computing the fact that Mendoza apparently has some kind of anxiety problem too – _pill sorter,_ he thinks, the one he saw at Mendoza’s house, and he knew what to do when Platt was panicking – because Mendoza’s happy and friendly and _normal_ , everyone likes him, and Platt doesn’t even remember what it feels like to not feel stressed and be a dick about it. And- and Mendoza’s saying he _told_ people, the team or staff or something, which is just-

“Did cameras see?” Platt asks. It comes out pitchy, terrified-sounding even to him. He wonders if he’s going to panic again. Wonders if the rest of his entire life is just going to be this, non-stop forever.

Mendoza shakes his head. “No,” he says, “no, just us,” like that’s going to make Platt feel any better, the idea that an entire team of people saw him for exactly the mess he is, that he just gave them visible proof that they were right to think he’s more trouble than he’s worth.

Platt stabs the side of his juice box with his straw. Tries to. The straw bends pointlessly without even puncturing the cardboard.

There’s a knock on the door, and Wahlstrom pokes his head through. “Mendoza,” he says, with this little _c’mere_ nod of a gesture, and Mendoza gets up, gives Platt one last head pat on his way over.

Platt’s not looking at either of them: his dad squeezes past Wahlstrom and through the door, eyes scanning around wildly ‘til he gets Platt in his sights. He’s in a Flames sweater, Platt’s number 27 just visible on his sleeve, and Platt’s instinctive reaction is _wrong_ , it looks wrong seeing his dad in colours that aren’t the Stars’.

Platt shrinks in on himself.

“Did they-” he starts to ask, and doesn’t have to finish, _tell you?_ , because his dad looks totally serious, which he never does unless it’s about hockey, never except for the one other time Platt let something like this happen.

“Sorry,” Platt almost-whispers, shame twisting sickly in his gut.

“Don’t-” His dad looks lost as the others close the door, leaving them alone together. “I didn’t- does this still happen? To you?”

“Not the fainting part, usually,” Platt mumbles, and it makes his dad’s face go, just, horrified, exactly like when Platt was little and had a meltdown at practice, like he was blaming himself for all of it, willing to drop everything and ruin his own life just because his terrible son couldn’t get his shit together.

“I’m sorry,” Platt says, a little desperately, and his dad is already shaking his head, stopping him.

“Platt,” he says, too sad to be scolding. Kind of mystified, too. “What happened?”

 _I’ve been hiding semi-regular panic attacks from you and everyone else for more than ten years and also I think I’m doomed to destroy everything good I touch forever,_ Platt doesn’t say.

Platt shrugs. Has a nagging suspicion his scowl looks more like a pout. “I said so much bad stuff,” is what comes out of his mouth, like a confession. “I played like shit and Darling said we’re brothers, and my coach was all- and- and Franklin- and- _fuck_.” He hits the hard, plastic-y leather of the stupid little examination table he’s sat on, something, anything to try and dispense with all the feelings and tension and garbage built up inside him. It’s not nearly as satisfying as he wants it to be. Kind of just makes his hand hurt.

“He said we’re _friends_ ,” Platt almost-growls, then, fiercely, “I hate him. I hate this stupid team. Don’t tell me I don’t.”

“I... wasn’t going to?”

Platt, since hitting the bed hasn’t worked, switches to taking out his anger on his juicebox, crumpling the empty carton. A last little trickle of juice spills out on his hand, red like blood. That doesn’t make him feel better either. “They’re not my friends.”

His dad tilts his head, and Platt feels abruptly embarrassed by his mini-tantrum. His dad perches on the other end of the doctor’s table. “It sort of looked yesterday like they’re your friends,” he says, all reasonable, and that makes Platt furious with him, too, because his dad doesn’t know _anything_ , he thinks Platt’s like him and it couldn’t be further than the truth.

“Why the fuck would they want to be?” Platt demands, not even caring if Mendoza and Wahlstrom are still outside, not caring if his voice carries, ‘cause fucking things up is what he does, that’s why he’s here humiliated in front of everyone he knows in the first place. “All I do is ruin our entire family name and panic and run my mouth, and I’m never what people want me to be, I’m never going to be you, I’m just going to keep ruining things like I ruined you and mom, and you and Franklin and everyone are just going to keep being _nice_ and all I’m going to do is not deserve it so you might as well stop wasting your time-”

His voice breaks, and his dad squishes him into a hug.

Platt tenses up instinctively. This isn’t- this isn’t _them_ , Platt is too grown up for this and has been too grown up for this for as long as he can remember, because this, this idea of needing a parent like some kid, it’s so not them. They’re _buddies_. Platt doesn’t need taking care of. He doesn’t even want it. He can handle shit on his own.

He’s horrified to find himself sniffling into his dad’s shoulder, eyes scrunched shut, making all these incredibly humiliating, trying-not-to-cry noises into the new-smelling jersey fabric. He wants today to be _done._

“Fuck,” he says, very quietly, and his dad just holds onto him ‘til Platt shudders himself into silence, slumped against him.

People keep on hugging Platt, recently. More than they did before, he thinks, and then he thinks that maybe he’s just been letting them. He doesn’t know. He wants to sleep for maybe forty hours straight and then he can be a person again. Mendoza maybe had a point about the tiring out your body thing.

“I’m sorry,” his dad says, eventually, and that’s enough for Platt to straighten up, scrubbing at his eyes.

“Don’t-”

“You gotta know that nothing with your mom and me is your fault.”

Platt swallows, hard. It hurts his throat. “She fucked off as soon as I got here,” he says, numb. Trying to be. He plays with the straw wrapper from his juice box. “Like, basically as soon as I was _born,_ so-”

“She fucked off because we’d just had a baby and I was a shitty husband and I’m still to this day garbage at pretending to be able to hold a conversation about literally anything other than hockey,” his dad cuts him off, and Platt forgets being numb or nervous or embarrassed at the terrible amounts of honesty in this conversation in favour of being indignant.

“That’s just how we are,” he says, ‘cause fuck anyone who doesn’t love hockey as much as the two of them. His dad doesn’t look less concerned. More, if anything.

“I never wanted-” He breaks off, shaking his head. “Platt, if I did anything to make you think I expect you to be anything else than what you are, I’m so, so sorry.” He grips Platt’s shoulder, hard. “You don’t have to be me.” Platt shakes his head, but his dad holds tighter. “You absolutely don’t have to be me, Platt-”

“I have to be fucking _something_ ,” Platt says, shoving his dad’s hand off his shoulder. He doesn’t do the panic thing in front of people and this is exactly why, because they make a big deal and try to be all nice to him and it doesn’t make him any less of a disaster, and he guesses that that might be why he doesn’t really see it coming when his dad says, matter of fact,

“Well, see, no, that’s just bullshit.”

The laugh – ragged, ugly, but still a laugh – escapes Platt without his permission, mostly just from shock. That wasn’t nice at all. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, twenty-seven,” his dad says, firm. “There’s no, like, performance threshold you have to reach for caring about you to be worth it, people who care about you know what they’re getting into.” He shrugs. “That’s kind of the cool part of the whole love thing. There’s literally nothing you could do to make me care about you any less, or to make me less insanely fucking proud of you.”

He means it, Platt realizes, and the realization almost makes him start laughing again, just at the shock of it. Everything that’s gone wrong this last day and a bit, hell, this last year, and his dad still means that.

“You can’t just say that,” Platt says, shaking his head, dragging both his hands roughly across his eyes to get rid of any traces of crying. “I don’t deserve-”

“Stop,” his dad says again, looking Platt dead in the eyes, all intense like the pictures of him that used to be on the front of the arena. “A, more bullshit, B, If people could only be loved when they deserve it, no one would love anyone ever.”

Which _sounds_ well and good, but- “I’ve got nine goals all season, dad,” Platt says, and his voice comes out so, so small.

“Alright, listen to me,” his dad says, no nonsense. “You’re talking about deserving, kiddo, you’ve got a group of guys who clearly love being around you to play nerd games I do not understand at all, plus that deeply weird guy who asked me to autograph his arm yesterday obviously thinks the world of you, _and_ you have a coaching staff that trusts you – in barely your third year in the league, by the way – to go out there and get a comeback going against a team that’s first in their division.” He talks over Platt’s half-started protest. “Yeah, sure, it didn’t work this time, but you almost made it happen. This is your _team,_ Platt, and I couldn’t care any fuckin’ less about whether or not it’s my team too, ‘cause it means I get to watch you make this place into yours. So fuck deserving, okay? You’re doing good.”

Platt wants so, so badly to do good. He wants it always, to be that, only he thinks of Franklin’s face when he lashed out, thinks of how Franklin trusted him to say the truth and Platt got scared and threw it back in his face.

“I fucked up,” he whispers. “I think I fucked up, though, dad.”

His dad puts his hand back on Platt’s shoulder, and this time Platt doesn’t shove him away. “Everyone fucks up.”

“Not-”

“Yes, me,” his dad cuts in, all earnest. “Yes, everyone, so you do what you can to try and fix it and not fuck up again next time, and the people who love you keep trying too, and they still love you, because that’s the fucking point, alright?”

Which is like- nice, really, really nice, and subsequently the literal worst thing in the world, because Platt is horrified to find himself kind of choked up all over again, and his dad looks like he’s maybe feeling the same, which, gross.

They both look away. Platt swipes at his nose so he won’t start sniffling. He doesn’t know how people do this emotions shit on a regular basis. His voice comes out real gruff when he says, “Was that a dad speech or a captain speech?”

His dad shrugs. Looks almost self-conscious. “Supposed to be a dad one.”

Platt swings his legs where they’re dangling off the stupid, unpunchable trainer’s table. “I guess it was decent.”

“Thanks, I have no clue what I’m doing,” his dad says, and he’s joking, but not really. “Want me to ask for a few days off? I can fly up with you, make sure you’re doing okay. Whatever you need.”

Platt shakes his head. He knows his dad means this, too, knows that he would do it if Platt needed him to. Which is just, like- it hits Platt like a ton of bricks, the knowledge sinking in that he’s been waiting all this time for his dad’s disappointment and anger and annoyance to join everyone else’s, but it’s never come, and, Platt realizes, he doesn’t think it’s going to. And it’s one thing to know, in the abstract, that someone loves you, but to _see_ it-

Platt’s phone buzzes with an incoming message. He glances down. _We’re at the bus when you’re ready_. From Darling. And then more messages like it, in the team groupchat and the party groupchat and a few individual messages, enough of them that Platt scrolls and scrolls and still doesn’t see his news notifications. His team waited for him. They didn’t win, and they still waited. Platt’s dad is still here waiting with him.

“Your friends?” his dad asks.

Platt does something midway between a nod and a shrug, not sure which he actually intends it to be. He feels all, like- _feeling_ , but not in the overwhelming, terrifying way he’s been feeling these last twenty-four hours. For the first time maybe his entire life, feeling feels like something light, a weight off his shoulders instead of piled on. And he’s still physically exhausted and a little shaky, so maybe that’s some of it, but it’s also, like- the thing Platt’s been locking himself in bathrooms and closets to avoid for the last ten years happened, in front of basically everyone he knows, and he’s still here. People still waited with him through it.

He breathes in, then out, and his breath hardly shakes at all.

His dad shoves their arms together. “We’re going to get you seeing someone about the panic thing, alright?”

“ _Dad_ ,” Platt whines.

“Nope,” his dad shakes his head, stubborn. “No arguing, mental health shit is important and normal and you don’t have to tell people if you’re embarrassed but we’re getting you help.” Platt doesn’t point out that the telling people ship has kind of already sailed, after tonight. His dad adds, quick, “That was more parenting so you have to listen.”

 _Loser,_ Platt thinks. “Yeah, well,” he mumbles, struck by the sudden surge of fondness he feels. “Quit it, seventy-two, it’s really lame.”

“Can’t hear you over what a wise as hell parent figure I just was,” his dad grins, all proud of himself, and it’s normal enough that Platt kind of grins too and shoves him back, ‘cause what kind of parent refers to himself as a ‘parent figure’, seriously.

He swipes at his eyes one more time, catching the last tear that managed to sneak its way out. Finds himself a little bit at a loss, then, because he doesn’t know how to say it in a way that’s still _them_ , how much it means – today especially, but always – that his dad is there. Just _there_ for Platt, and trying even when he’s kind of objectively crap at it, and then Platt’s at a loss feeling turns into something a little like sadness, ‘cause his dad tries to look out for him, in his way, but Platt has always looked out for him too, and now his dad doesn’t have a D&D group or a Franklin or anything to stop him from waiting around for Platt’s mom. All he’s got is hockey.

It’s lonely, Platt realizes, only having hockey.

“You should-” Platt clears his throat. “I get what you said, about loving without always deserving or whatever? But you should be with someone who tries to deserve it,” he says, a little clumsy, but honest. “Who wants to try. Same as you.”

Platt watches his words land. His dad wilts a little.

“Quit parenting me,” he mutters, scuffing his feet along the tiled floor.

Platt snorts a laugh. That’s more normal, for them. “I’ve been hanging around with Mendoza too much,” he allows, and his dad shakes his head in disbelief.

“Jesus, I played him when he was like, eighteen.”

“He literally has a ‘live, laugh, love’ decal in his house,” Platt informs him.

“Fuck me, that can’t be true,” his dad says, horrified, and Platt finds himself, somehow, after everything, laughing, shaky but real.

His team is waiting for him. He can’t wait to get the hell out of this city.

He stays a while longer, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the first three quarters of this chapter are basically the pov character having a period of very very heightened anxiety culminating in a panic attack; he gets help


	11. Chapter 11

Platt’s not late for practice in Denver – he’s never late for practice – but he’s a couple minutes later than he’d usually be.

He fights the urge to slink into the locker room, instead stalks in, chin up, practically a dare. Is confident that he doesn’t look tentative as he’s stripping down and lacing up, even if he feels it, sitting there with a retort ready on his tongue in case any of the guys ask where he’s been and try to say any shit about it, ‘cause there’s a big difference between panicking and briefly blacking out in front of your team and being willing to talk about said panicking and blacking out with said team. Bigger difference between seeing a – psychologist? psychiatrist? Whatever the fuck the difference is – and being willing to talk about _that_. It already took Platt three tries to even walk into her office earlier, and then only ‘cause if he didn’t he’s ninety percent sure his dad would’ve chartered a plane to Calgary and marched him in, and Coach and Mendoza would’ve helped.

It was a lot.

Even with all Platt’s bracing himself, the talk about prescriptions and meeting a therapist and how brave of him it was to come get help was so much, all at once and all so blatantly the opposite of what he’s spent ten years trying to be that he kind of just wanted to say _no thank you I will stick to freaking out alone and not letting this impact my life._

 _It already does impact your life, dumbshit_ , is what his brain replied to that, so he stayed. Platt doesn’t know if it’s, like, pathetic that that felt like a win – he really is a Flame, now – but it did.

Hence: late. Almost-late.

But here. Trying.

It’s scary. Platt wishes it wasn’t, thinks he probably knows better, but sitting here, looking around at a roomful of people who saw him at his absolute worst and most helpless, it’s scary.

There’s a burst of laughter from over by the D’s stalls as Platt knots his laces, and he looks up sharply, chest tightening, only it’s just Daniil laughing at whatever dumb shit Speersy said. They both give Platt little nods when they meet his eyes, then go back to their conversation like nothing happened. Mendoza’s singing loud and offkey from out in the hall as he checks his sticks. CJ’s comparing something about his helmet’s straps with Toivy.

Platt wonders when the hell he started knowing names. Wonders, more muscle memory than anything else, what people have been saying about him since he last checked, only someone bumps his arm as he twitches toward his phone.

“Liney,” Darling says, by way of greeting.

Platt bumps him back, instinct more than a conscious choice. “Pookie,” he says.

Darling flips him off, makes a big deal of rolling his eyes, but he stays next to Platt as they step onto the ice and after, too, like maybe he really meant the brothers thing, even though Platt would never, ever have such a pretentious dickhead of a brother ever in his life, but-

It’s okay. No one says anything to him about the panic thing, and Platt feels okay on the ice, which hasn’t been true in a while.

He does a few slow laps of the rink, getting his feet under him, a puck on his stick. It takes every second of every lap for him to work up the nerve to skate over toward Franklin and the starter’s net.

As soon as Franklin sees him coming, he turns around and jams his helmet over his head, doesn’t turn back once Platt stops up behind him. Great start. Fuck.

“Hi,” Platt says, careful, and six days might as well be six years, how much effort it takes him to get the word out. Talking is supposed to be his _thing_.

“Oh, hi, I’m glad you’re feeling better!” Franklin says, bright and sunny as ever, and so entirely, obviously forced that it feels like Platt’s heart breaks, just a little. He doesn’t know how many times Franklin’s been fake happy in front of him. Doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before.

“…Are you?” Platt asks Franklin’s back. “Feeling better?” He addresses his words to the sewn-on _NAHMOUD_ there, which has the unintended side effect of reminding him sharply of Franklin’s fingers tracing the same letters on his back, and, yeah, that’s Platt’s heart fracturing a little again.

“Yep, fine!” Franklin says.

He doesn’t turn around.

The silence gnaws at Platt’s insides. He doesn’t know how the fuck to do this. Can’t summon up the words to say _sorry my brain was eating me alive and I took it out on you please still like me_ without sounding like he’s making an excuse, which he doesn’t want to do. He said really mean shit, no one made him say it. And he gets that it’s maybe asking too much for one half-hour consultation with a brain doctor person to magically turn him into an emotionally functional person, but like, it should do _something_ , right? Make this easier?

“Franklin, I-”

Coach’s whistle shrieks out, cutting him off before he can get to _miss you_ or _am so sorry_ or _want to try, please let me try not to have ruined us_ , and Platt waits, but Franklin still doesn’t turn to look at him, so he skates, feet dragging, towards the rest of the forwards.

The other thing that one half-hour brain doctor consultation didn’t do is make practice go any less downhill from there.

Platt would love to blame it on the altitude, the long roadie throwing everyone a little bit off beat, he really would. The thing is, though, it’s not everyone. It’s Franklin. Daniil sends an absolute muffin sailing towards the net, and it flies right past Franklin’s glove hand, and the same thing happens next rush too, Franklin diving wildly for the puck and missing entirely.

Franklin’s calm in net, usually. That’s his whole thing, why he’s so good so consistently, and today he’s just not, moving too much, visibly trying way too hard even when guys start pulling their shots, trying to boost his confidence.

It’s bad enough for long enough that, eventually, Wahlstrom blows their scrimmage dead.

“Frankie, take a breather,” he says. “C’mon.”

“Sorry,” Franklin says, and he looks like he’s trying to shrink behind his pads, still down on the ice. “Sorry.”

Coach Wahlstrom’s a tell it like it is kind of guy, but even he’s not immune to Franklin, and he softens, just a bit. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Franklin retreats a little further back into his net like a turtle into his shell. “Still, I’m- sorry. I’ll be better.”

The quiet of the rink, already unfamiliar on the road, feels oppressive. Franklin skates over to the bench, and his goalie coach and Toivy go after him, talking in low voices. _Goalie secrets_ , Platt’s mind supplies, and he wants to laugh almost as much as he sort of wants to cry. Around him, some of the guys are exchanging concerned looks, but no one says anything out loud, probably ‘cause everyone knows that Franklin’s ninety percent of the reason they’ve been in any game this season and freaking him out more isn’t good for anyone. A sad goalie is a bad goalie. Platt finds he cares about the first part of that statement way more than the second, which, like, if he wasn’t already aware of how much of an absolute goner he was for this guy, would probably do the trick.

He can’t tell if it makes him feel worse or better that sad Franklin looks a whole hell of a lot like normal Franklin. Or- tries to. Platt watches him all the rest of practice and after, when they’re getting showered and changed, and what he sees is Franklin faking it for all he’s worth, his usual chipperness cranked up to eleven, his voice strung tight so Platt finds himself waiting for it to snap.

Worse, Platt decides. Definitely worse.

He meets Franklin’s eyes, half an accident, and Franklin looks away immediately, grabs his bag and starts stuffing things in, rapid-fire. _He doesn’t want to talk to you, idiot_ , Platt scolds himself, and he casts around for something, anything he can do or say to make things right between them, but comes up blank. No plan. No nothing, to untangle this.

Platt’s jamming his feet into his socks, fully prepared to go back to the team hotel and sulk in peace, when Mendoza, clearly picking up on the vibes emanating from the goalie stalls, does the thing he does where he gets rid of the tension by being loud and obnoxiously friendly. Or- he tries to.

Platt doesn’t get a chance to tell him to leave Franklin alone before he’s booming away.

“Oh, Frankie, hey,” Mendoza says, and Franklin doesn’t stop packing up. “Izzy’s got her school concert on Monday, it’s the first time I’ll be able to go to one in ages. Is it alright if we reschedule D&D, or-”

Franklin’s phone clatters to the floor as he fumbles it right out of his hands. “Of course it’s alright!” he says. Close to snapping the words out as Platt’s ever heard him. “I’m not going to make you play if you don’t want to! I didn’t even- has this been a recurring thing?” His voice pitches up a little. “Because if I’ve been interfering with your plans this entire time you really should’ve just _told_ me if you didn’t want to be friends, I don’t think it would’ve been that hard to say!”

Mendoza raises his hands like he’s calming a scared animal. “Frankie, woah, that’s not-”

Franklin’s lip wobbles, and he looks _mortified_ , and all that effort, he doesn’t even take his bag with him when he all-but runs out of the room.

Not one person is talking, not a word. Platt stares, open-mouthed, and can’t make himself stop. By Franklin standards, that was basically a screaming fit.

“What the fuck is with him?” Mendoza asks into the stunned silence before grabbing Franklin’s phone and backpack and heading out after him; and he wasn’t addressing the question to anyone in particular, no accusation to it at all, but Platt feels himself reddening anyways, the guilt curdled in his stomach as he snaps his mouth shut.

This was him, he knows certain as anything. Franklin trusted him, Franklin with all his ridiculous ideas about being anything close to unlikeable, and he started to believe Platt when he said he liked him, just in time to also believe Platt when he implied that he hadn’t all along. Because of course it wouldn’t be enough for Platt’s temper to drag himself down, he had to pull Franklin in too and apparently make him question, like, everything and everyone. It’s a garbage deal, really, the way that Platt couldn’t even appreciate how hot angry Franklin was just now – seriously, incredibly hot, Platt wants to make out with him for eight consecutive hours – because he’s too preoccupied with the fact that he’s evidently burned to death the single most meaningful relationship he’s maybe ever had.

Platt sprawls out on the hideously taupe hotel bedspread and despairs.

Darling’s texting over on the other bed, which Platt knows because Darling is a monster who leaves his keyboard sounds on. He’s texting Joey, which Platt knows because Darling’s got a specific, deeply embarrassingly soft expression that he gets every time he’s doing the boyfriend thing, like he’s really trying to live up to his name.

Platt wishes he could be proud of the plan succeeding. Wishes he could do anything except wish it had never happened, because sure, then he and Franklin wouldn’t have gotten close, but he also wouldn’t be feeling this miserable, knife-twisting feeling now that the closeness is gone. Platt doesn’t know how people who get crushes regularly even _survive_. He wants to scream. He wants another hug, maybe.

Feelings: garbage, confirmed.

Darling asks, without looking up, “What happened?”

It takes Platt a second to realize that Darling’s talking to him, and then only ‘cause he’s the only other person in the room. “Huh?”

“With Franklin,” Darling says, impatient. “What happened with you and Franklin, your palpable angst is stressing me out.”

“I’m not angsty,” Platt snaps, and then he flops over onto his stomach and lets out a strangled sound into his pillow. It does not make him feel better. He didn’t really think it would.

When he peeks up again, Darling just raises an eyebrow at him, so Platt hides his face again.

“I told him I didn’t care,” he mumbles, muffled, into his pillow. “I maybe implied that we weren’t really friends.”

Darling sounds, predictably, annoyed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“I told you we weren’t friends and you didn’t believe me!” Platt protests, even though he knows fine well it’s not the same thing, and judging by the look Darling skewers him with when he peeks up again, he does too.

“Yeah, because I possess more than, like, a thimbleful of fragile self-esteem and don’t actually care about your opinion,” Darling says, then, massaging his temples, “That was literally the worst possible thing you could have told Franklin, you realize that, yes?”

“Yeah, that’s why I said it,” Platt says, miserable. He knows Franklin had trouble making friends growing up, knows he worries about it still. Knew to go for that weak spot, quickest way to get someone to let go of you, same as in a fistfight. “But I didn’t _mean_ -” he bursts out, then, despairing, “How can he actually think I meant-”

“I don’t know, Sinclair,” Darling says, “how did you convince yourself that the people you hang out with every day and who all had career seasons because of you secretly hated you this whole time?”

And it sort of does sound irrational when he says it like that. Platt guesses that’s like, kind of how the whole panic disorder thing works. Although-

“You literally did hate me for like, a month,” Platt points out.

“I’m not sure how that’s relevant,” Darling says, all haughty – the guy clearly wasn’t on debate team in college – and Platt gets that this is Darling attempting to be nice, by his standards, but his niceness and standards are both shit, so Platt just scowls at him and retreats back under his pillow so he can be sad with dignity, and also because his headphones are across the room in his bag and he doesn’t want to get up.

It’s not even a full minute before the pillow is plucked unceremoniously off of his face, and he peers up to see a looming Darling give the longest, most _how is this my life_ sigh. “Up, let’s go.”

Platt scowls at him, grabs for the pillow, which Darling holds up and out of his reach. “What are you doing?”

“Payback,” Darling says. He tosses the pillow right over Platt and onto the floor, looking down at his phone again. He’s not wearing his Joey face, so Platt’s not sure who he’s texting anymore, though he gets a pretty good idea once Darling marches him down the hall and hammers at the third door from the end.

Mendoza doesn’t look surprised when he opens up. “Entrez-vous,” he says, all dramatic, and Platt rolls his eyes so hard he feels like his soul departs his body. He’s seriously contemplating sprinting back down the hall and making a break for it, but CJ appears behind him, blocking exit routes and also everything else in a giant rectangle, and Darling grabs Platt’s arm and marches him into the room before he can think up another option.

“Sinclair has an announcement,” Darling says, once they’re all situated in the room. He’s already on his phone again. Platt is very jealous that he forgot his back in their room, since it would give him something, anything to focus on other than CJ in the armchair and Mendoza next to Darling on the bed, looking at him expectantly.

Platt sucks in a breath. Lets it out real slow. Wishes, absurdly, that he could just roll a dice for this, pull a Bruce Wayne and be charismatic as shit while Franklin smiles at him, all proud of him for participating.

That settles something inside of Platt, that thought. _For Franklin,_ he thinks, and then, in the voice that sounds suspiciously like his dad, _just try_.

“Listen,” he tries. It comes out aggressive, an order instead of a request. That was maybe inevitable. Platt powers through. “You’re all, like,” he waves a hand, “good people, or whatever.” Then, thinking about it, “I mean, CJ, you’re a closed book, I know very little about you, but you seem fine.”

CJ gives a smirk that lasts point-five seconds before he’s back to stoic.

“We’ve spent, like, a lot of time together, by this point, I guess, so- like we were all at practice today, we all saw, so-” Platt feels like he’s going to choke on the words. Probably sounds like it, too, when he manages to force out, “So I’m requesting your help.” Then, _fuck it, if they’re still talking to you after the other night, may as well go for broke,_ he says, “This may come as a surprise, but I really, really, really like Franklin. Like, in a romantic way.”

He glares around at each of the others in turn, ready to tear a new one into whoever tries to say anything, but no one looks like he’s said anything newsworthy at all.

“No one is surprised by that, buddy, you’re almost comically transparent,” Mendoza says, and Darling nods, has the audacity to look almost bored.

“You’ve been staring at him literally non-stop since you got here, it’s both adorable and pathetic.”

Platt decides, very dignified, to ignore both of those extremely untrue and slanderous statements.

“The _point_ ,” he says, “is that I fucked up. I made him think he’s not important to me, but he is, and I need to tell him that. I need…” Platt shakes his head, feels the weight of everything he said, everything he did to Franklin, pressing down on him. “I need to say how sorry I am. And to make sure he knows how full of shit I was being, and how- how amazing he should see himself as. But he’s not talking to me, so I just- I need help.” He swipes at his nose, lifts his chin, tries to look both earnest and honest, or at least less immediately hateable than he assumes is his default. “I need your help, and you guys don’t have to do it for me, but do it for Franklin, okay? Please.”

He barely even gets to finish asking.

“We’d do it for you too, Platt-ypus.” Mendoza says, because somehow his nickname ideas get worse every time, which shouldn’t even be possible at this point.

“We’re not calling him that,” CJ says.

“I might call him that,” Darling says, without looking up from his phone, and Platt flips him off, but Mendoza’s already stroking his chin, real deep in thought.

“Mads knows all the stuff Frankie likes,” he says, “So she’s a resource, _and_ she’s got a cousin in Cochrane who’s a florist, if we’re thinking grand romantic gesture.”

“Skywriting,” CJ nods seriously, like that was even remotely on the table, and before Platt can protest either of those suggestions, because fuck no, another voice chimes in.

“We need to narrow our scope, guys, aim for something super personal and meaningful.” Darling turns his phone around to face the room at large, and Platt looks down to see Joey on the screen, waving happily. “Hey, Platt! Congrats on the feelings!”

“ _Congrats on the feelings,_ you’re so lame,” Darling sighs, fond, and Joey blows him a little grainy kiss mid-wave.

Platt waves back a little weakly, standing there mostly too stunned to move as the guys get back to throwing around ideas with just as much enthusiasm as when they’re all in character in Mendoza’s basement, the party planning some stupidly involved heist or something. Only- this isn’t a game, it’s not either of their games, there’s no rulebooks or contracts making them cooperate with Platt, they’re just… doing this. For him. Because he asked.

Platt folds his arms across his chest, overwhelmed. “So… you’ll help me?” he asks. It comes out real small.

“What does it look like we’re doing?” Darling says, raising one arched eyebrow, and they’re all talking over each other, brainstorming all these different romantic gestures – “Two words: Mix. Tape.” “That’s one word, dumbshit.” – and Platt doesn’t realize he’s staring, speechless, until they turn the loud chatter at him.

“Blushing is a rough look for you, man, with the hair and everything.”

Joey pipes up from the phone, “You guys should get him to blush when he’s dressed for a game, it would be, like, floor to ceiling bright red-”

“Fuck you all,” Platt says, feeling his face heat up even more as the others laugh, but it’s not angry heat the way Platt’s half-expecting it to be. Not angry laughing, either, nothing behind it at all but affection and familiarity that Platt thinks he might’ve wandered into in spite of himself, and _that_ \- that’s a whole different kind of warmth, winding all the way inside him like a hot drink on a cold day, almost like his Franklin feeling.

 _That’s friends_ , Platt’s brain supplies, helpfully, and he doesn’t bother quieting it. _Friends, friends_ , and when Platt feels the little spark of hope start to kindle inside him, that feels familiar, too.

\---

It’s the world’s longest elevator ride, with the old lady and her corgi both staring at Platt every second of the way up. The old lady looks judgemental. The corgi somehow looks _more_ judgemental.

Platt ignores the both of them, just stands, thrumming with anticipation and maybe more than a little dread, watching the numbers on the little screen tick rhythmically higher. The corgi growls at him when he accidentally makes eye contact. Platt scowls at it, ignores the scandalized mutter from its owner as the elevator stops, and steps into the hallway.

Once Platt gets to the door, he doesn’t let himself hesitate, just takes a deep breath, stands as tall as he can, and knocks.

Franklin must not check the peep hole before opening up, because the door swings open and Platt gets maybe half a second to take him in, him and his t-shirt with some undoubtedly geeky-as-shit screenprinted reference, his sweats that end a little above his ankles, his curls a mess, before Franklin’s making this little _eek_ sound, mouth dropping open in surprise.

“Greetings, weary traveller, your help is needed for an epic and terrifying quest,” Platt says in his best movie trailer voice, and Franklin does a very visible double take, which is probably justified, given that Platt is currently standing in his doorway wearing a tunic and tights and weirdly pointy slipper-shoes that, per the packaging the costume came in, apparently are ‘medieval lad’ clothing, because the site didn’t have anything more specific and this was the most meaningful grand gesture half the Flames roster was able to think up.

Platt is questioning the wisdom of the whole ‘friends’ thing. Maybe he was being optimistic. Maybe friends are terrible, actually, and convince you to dress like an absolute fucking tool in public.

He’s in it now, though, so he pulls himself up to his full height and tries to not fidget in his tights. “I’m Bruce Wayne,” he explains. “Not- I’m my D&D character, not the superhero- you get it.”

“I get it,” Franklin confirms. He doesn’t look upset with Platt anymore, or like he’s pretending to be happy again, or on the verge of exploding with repressed anger, which Platt has to assume are good things. He still looks more confused than anything else, which Platt can’t assume anything about at all. “Um. Why…are you dressed up as your PC?”

Okay. Okay, Sinclair. For Franklin.

“I- I’m trying-” Platt says, and Franklin’s eyes flicker to his, still wary, and Platt could really use some of that bardic charisma right now, but instead he just does what he’s always done and talks.

“I’m trying via costume to say that I’m sorry for being an asshole and none of that stuff I said to you is true at all, and-” He chews his lip, tries to sort out his words. “Okay, like, this entire thing,” he gestures at himself and his costume, “makes me feel incredibly stupid and also, like, literally physically sick at the concept that I could be standing here like a dumbass and feeling all this stuff and the team might still realize I’m not worth the hype, or you guys might decide you don’t want me in the party anymore, or you might figure out that wanting to kiss me was a weird temporary thing and it didn’t live up to what you wanted and- and that would just be the worst thing ever, Franklin, because I’m like-”

His voice breaks. If he starts crying for the third time in a week Platt is jumping off the nearest cliff. “I didn’t even know someone like you could exist, let alone be my best friend, but you do and you are and you’re so good _,_ Franklin, and you act like I’m good too even when I _know_ I’m not, and it’s- it’s fucking terrifying, because you could decide not to want me and I care so, so much about you. More than what people think. More than anything.”

Franklin’s looking at him, eyes wide, and Platt dares a step closer. Would step closer anyways, probably, because that’s where he wants to be, is closer to Franklin. That’s where he always wants to be, and that conviction, certain inside him, makes him brave enough to go on, “I care- like, about all of you, you fucking weirdo nerdass losers, I’ve _been_ caring about all of you. I never had friends like this, ever. Don’t tell Darling.”

Platt hears the little laugh that escapes Franklin at the Darling thing, and his heart _soars_. Franklin’s laughing again. Franklin’s happy. This whole thing, the costume and the spilling his guts, was worth it, no matter what happens now.

Platt peers up at Franklin, a few paces away. “I care about this team,” he finishes. “I tried not to and it didn’t work. It hasn’t once worked. So I’m- I’m fucking leaning in. Apparently. To caring. Sorry for sucking at it. Don’t hate me.”

Between the two of them, Franklin’s the one who’s good at words. Clearly. He doesn’t use them now, though, just stands there in his doorway looking at Platt for one long moment, then another.

Platt stays where he is. Returns Franklin’s gaze.

Finally, a million years later, so small a gesture that Platt almost misses it, Franklin shakes his head, just once. “I don’t hate you,” he says, quiet.

Which is just- the single best thing Platt’s ever heard, but also not the point of this, Franklin feeling like he’s got to be nice to Platt or Platt won’t like him, and Platt hurries to add, “Not that- you can if you want to, if you do that’s- like, it’s not _okay_ , obviously, but you’re allowed to hate me, you’re allowed to feel whatever you got to feel even if it’s mean and I won’t love you any less.”

It’s a couple more seconds of silence and Franklin’s eyes going almost comically wide before Platt’s brain catches up to his mouth and he realizes what exactly just rolled off his tongue. “Not that I-” He clamps his mouth shut. Can’t lie, but can’t quite bring himself to be _that_ honest, not on purpose, either. Oh god. This is a nightmare. He should’ve planned this better. “Fuck.”

Platt closes his eyes, some latent and deeply cowardly ‘if I can’t see you, you can’t see me’ instinct that he knows for a fact is pointless, because he’s got zero doubt that his face is burning red again, broadcasting his emotions all over the place like the fucking tights weren’t enough.

Franklin is impossibly quiet. Platt’s brain summons up approximately eight million different scenarios where Franklin walks away and leaves Platt standing there and they never talk again and that’s it forever, everything Platt’s scared of come to pass, that’s what you get for having hope, fuckface.

When Franklin speaks, though, it’s from closer than he was before. “Do you think you could look at me, maybe?”

Platt shakes his head without opening his eyes. “I think that I physically cannot do that without puking then dying, actually, no,” he says.

“I suppose that makes sense,” Franklin says, mildly. “Plus you’re pretty short, it’s a long way up.”

Platt’s eyes fly open as he momentarily forgets his embarrassment in favour of indignation. “What the f-” he starts, and that’s when Franklin kisses him, both hands on Platt’s jaw, tilting him up so he can press his lips to Platt’s, certain as anything but gentle, always gentle, and he’s on his leading man bullshit again, one thumb ghosting over the round of Platt’s chin, and Platt is a fucking _goner_.

He kisses back, zero hesitation at all, lifting high as he can onto his toes to bridge the distance between them. Platt’s got both hands clutching at Franklin’s shirt, and then, when that’s not enough, when it’s nowhere even close to enough, he clings to the back of Franklin’s neck, fingers pushing into where his hair tapers off at the nape. A minute, a year, a century later, it occurs to Platt, absently at the back of his mind, that he just got baited – baited by _Franklin_ , Platt might be a bad influence – and he doesn’t mind at all.

When they part, Platt finds himself looking up at Franklin, searching, and what he finds is Franklin’s eyes glittering the way they do when he’s smiling with his whole face, the way that makes Platt’s heartrate go hyperspeed and somehow calms him completely, both at once.

“It’s extremely nice and romantic of you to dress up in medieval garb for me,” Franklin says, simple as anything, and Platt knows he’s forgiven. “It also looks very lovely on you.”

Platt puffs up a little at the compliment, but Franklin’s not done.

“But also, um, please don’t take this the wrong way, but D&D and LARPing are two distinct things and it’s a common error, I guess, but just to clarify, I do one and not the other, so this is not so much you symbolically participating in one of my passions as it is you wearing the funniest and most tightly fitting outfit I’ve ever seen.”

It takes Platt a second. “Are you chirping me right now?” he asks, disbelieving. “In the middle of my romantic gesture of how much you’ve inspired me to change and be more open as a person, you’re chirping me?”

Franklin shrugs a shoulder, all faux-casual, like the grin on his face isn’t a dead giveaway. “Just a little.”

“You’re a monster,” Platt informs him, grinning right back. “You are wonderful and loveable and also a _monster_.”

“Only with you,” Franklin says, eyes so soft it puts a lump right in Platt’s throat, and Franklin maybe gets that – he always gets it – because he wraps his arms around Platt and folds him into a hug, and Platt hugs him right back, hiding his face against Franklin’s chest, and it feels like coming home.

 _Love,_ he thinks, giddy, _I love him, I love him, I like him so much_ , and he feels clumsy, like his body doesn’t know how to hold this much happy without a matching amount of scared to balance it out. He pushes, gently, pressing Franklin back into the wall, pressing kisses to Franklin’s neck and jaw and as much as he can reach of his face ten times, a dozen, ‘til Franklin’s all giddy, his cheeks this gorgeous rosy pink like he’s trying to match Platt’s.

“You don’t have to re-sign here if you want to go to a contending team,” Franklin says into the barrage of kisses, touching his hands to Platt’s so they’re splayed out palm-to-palm between them. He looks like he’s trying to be serious, even as he’s fighting a smile, so Platt tries to copy. “I knew you were going through something when I said it, and I shouldn’t have implied - you and I can still-”

“It has been brought to my attention by a certain DM that seeing things through can be emotionally fulfilling, or whatever,” Platt says, then, with an eye roll that he only partially means, “And also I need to find out what’s going to happen in this fucking campaign, so I literally can’t leave. So.”

Franklin slides down the wall a little, leaning his weight against it so his legs are extended past Platt’s, so they can be eye-to-eye. “Even though you have to room with Sweetie on the road?”

Platt waves off the concern, slotting their fingers together. “I’ll bunk with my goalie.”

Franklin tilts his head, eyes sparkling. God _damn_ , those eyes. “And even with Alberta winters?”

“Fuck my life, and fuck this cold-ass province,” Platt says, because not even Franklin can make him enjoy Canadian winters. “But- no, I got Franklin sweaters.” Then, testing, “Boyfriend sweaters?”

Franklin nods, eager. “Legitimately all of them, yeah!” He pulls his hands free and loops his arms loosely around Platt’s shoulders instead. “I’m not even doing a joke, you’ve stolen all of my hoodies, I had to go to the store and purchase more.”

Platt is very, very grateful none of their friends are here to comment on the absolute fire-engine level blushing monstrosity that is undoubtedly his face right now. “You should’ve said something,” he chides. Tries to chide. It just comes out helplessly endeared. He can’t believe he gets to have this. How is this _real_? “You don’t have to be shy to say stuff to me.”

He’s not expecting it when Franklin starts laughing. Not complaining, though, and especially not when Franklin leans in and touches their noses together. “That’s so nice of you to say,” Franklin says. “Platt, that’s so, so nice and considerate of you, but I wasn’t being shy, I just think you look really, really hot in my clothes.”

“Holy fucking shit, I’m obsessed with you,” Platt breathes, reverent, and then Franklin’s kissing him again, his lips curved into a smile, and the best part – one of the best parts, all of it is the best part – is that somehow, impossibly, this, the kissing and the obsessing and the loving, is mutual. Platt _knows_ it is, sure as anything, and standing there with Franklin’s arms around him, he believes it, too. Franklin wants this. Franklin wants _him. Them_.

And, see, Platt does too, all of it, but right now he mostly just wants to kiss the hell out of the guy in front of him, to get out of the hallway then out of these stupid fucking tights, and then to get Franklin out of whatever he’s wearing too, because he’s the most stunning person Platt’s ever seen, and he’s as amazing at kissing as he is at most everything, and Platt-

Platt’s got _plans_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- when i sketched out this idea in summer 2019 it was almost unrecognizably different and i named the unimportant goalie background character after a french-canadian animated turtle for a goof. and then i opened it up in the middle of a pandemic and wrote 6000 words in one sitting and legitimately 5567 of those words were my protagonist becoming smitten with said unimportant goalie background character while i watched helplessly.   
>  \- tldr: this one, uh. got away from me? if you read it anyhow: thanks <3   
>  \- anyways platt's arc in this is [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9O1GLZ-mYsI&ab_channel=Mr.Justice)


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